The Dictionary of Dreams
by dictionaryofdreams
Summary: Let me take in every word, let me whisper in your ear. I will guide you through the nightmares. I will show you what to fear. My fears they never get me, I turn the other way. My heart will never let me, when my thoughts decay. But through my pride I cannot hide, I stand in your shadow.Tell me all your secrets, tell me all your dreams, when memories haunt, when the echo screams.
1. Chapter 1

The pitter-patter of the rain could be heard against the windows, drowned out by intermissions of the sharp crash of thunder. Leaning over his desk, Dr. Hannibal Lecter could be found meticulously working on a sketch by the dim light of his table lamp. He found the ambiance of the room most soothing as his mind was drawn away by the pattern of the rain, lulling him into a relaxed state. Still he could not help but turn over recent events, scrutinizing them for their sublime details. The man had an inclination for interpreting chance events as pieces of a greater whole, making the possibility of fate too tempting to ignore. It would be wrong to say that disruptive events would usher themselves into his life at the moment when he needed them most, but rather when he no longer needed, had almost forgotten, but still wanted them. That was when opportunity would strike and he took pleasure in contemplating this pattern, a part of him aware that events held only the meaning which he chose to attach to them. By his own mind, he could create a semblance of destiny in his life and thus cast himself in a role of importance, whether hero or villain it mattered not. That was the beauty of amorality.

Dr. Lecter was very much aware of a certain magnetism that drew him to Will Graham and the possibilities he offered. He could see that the man's strings could be pulled without his notice and Hannibal could appreciate the irony of it, that a man so gifted with empathy and insight into the thought-process of others would look past him. could become his shadow and follow in his footsteps, appeasing his curiosity and fueling the fire of the other's delirium. Yet at any time Pandora's box may be opened and he wished that time to be one of his choosing, he would prepare for it, he would instigate it. At least on a subconscious level, this stimulated both irritability and admiration in Hannibal. It had been long since he had met someone who could pique his interests so, it delighted him to imagine himself reflected in another, even for a brief instant. To have someone see through him and the intricate facades that he had weaved with utmost care. It made him see a certain feeble aspect of fear that motivated him to seek isolation, a sensible fear, but a fear nonetheless.

Hannibal looked down at his detailed sketch of a face. It stared back at him with frightened child-like eyes yet at the same time appeared somber and masculine. He had hoped to capture the form of anxiety that he had seen so often in Will, there was something quaint about it, something endearing. Dr. Lecter had led himself to believe that he was not attracted to weakness but at the same time it lured him to see a wound laid open, a psychological flaw, a form of vulnerability that was dangerous but not crippling in a man of talent. In an ordinary human it could only ever appear pitiful. He closed the sketchbook, not wishing to look upon the face as his mind turned to Froideveaux. He was soon to arrive for his session, punctually at half past six.

Hearing the kettle, Dr. Lecter rose from his desk and went to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of mint tea with honey. He stood by the window and looked down at the cars passing by below, the few people in soaked jackets trying to find shelter from the rain. Although he felt a certain comfort in his splendid isolation he was still ill at ease. There was a particular tension inside of him as he reflected over recent therapy sessions with Franklin Froideveaux. What a degraded, squirming creature in the semblance of a man. Every time he arrived it were as though he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders, finding it consistently unbearable. Hannibal could feel the other's desperate need for him. He could feel that Franklin was prone to developing obsessions that were not easily starved, the fellow was rather relentless in his pursuit of hope. Dr. Lecter knew that his patient held him in high regard to say the least, perhaps in awe, though he had done very little for the man to be deserving of such admiration. Reading over the reports from his past psychiatrists there were signs that he was not the first object of such affection. Due to his neuroticism, Hannibal could see that it was difficult for Froideveaux to form healthy relationships and maintain a friendship. Rejection after rejection could not subdue that very human sense of loneliness. Franklin set his sights to those in a position of power so it seemed, those like himself Hannibal mused, who sought to present before him an invulnerable facade. Still the man could reap some form of emotional solace from their strained, contrived, and practiced offerings of comfort and guidance. Dr. Lecter told his patient very little about himself that Franklin did not already know, at least on a subconscious level. His life had presented his flaws to him rather blatantly: the depression, the anxiety, the endless feelings of worthlessness. Navigating through social scenarios was difficult for him.

Hannibal could sympathize with the man, although he was better at predicting the behavioural norms expected of him he could understand the emptiness one felt when constantly suppressing their nature. It would be difficult to say what element of himself it was that he hid short of saying that it was a vulnerability. No one had ever seen inside of him, in such a way he hoped be immune to pain and manipulation. Of course any facade is not without its cracks but through the years of practice and cultivation he felt that he had arrived at a product with which he was satisfied. Only his own psychiatrist and confidant was party to this knowledge, as he desired. Dr. Lecter felt that it was important to have at least one individual with whom he may exchange his innermost thoughts, however indirectly. Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier was a skilled enough psychoanalyst to read deeper into his words than most, he could tell that she took a professional interest in him as a subject of study, although he was the one who had reached out to her. Still the coldness of her manner was a warning of caution to him. A reminder. With a touch of humor he imagined that much like prostitutes of the body, there was a place for prostitutes of the mind in a society woven of such social intricacies. It took a certain skill to navigate through one's own emotions and those of others, enough to trust the scrutiny of one's weaknesses. Psychiatrists, as other such professionals, could create an illusion that their professional selves were separate from their emotional selves, from the judgement and biased scrutiny that all humans are prone to. Many patients craved this illusion, it was understandable, to be in an artificial environment of emotional safety. A connection of the mind, whether real or not, for a fee. Still, it felt grim to him, to have given and received such a service. A guilty pleasure, an indulgence.

Dr. Lecter's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the ringing of a doorbell. His lips twitched in a subtle sign of annoyance as he set down his cup and made his way to the door. Already he could imagine the satirical nervous grin of the man behind it, his stomach churned.


	2. Chapter 2

A portly man in his late thirties stood at the doorway, his olive coloured overcoat slightly damp from the rain. Dr. Lecter's eyes flickered to the small pool of water fed by tiny drips beneath the umbrella his patient was anxiously clutching. He extended his hand to Mr. Froideveaux as he uttered the customary greeting.

"Come in," spoke Hannibal, his expression was calm yet stern, his voice revealing little of his emotions.

"Thank you," Franklin made his way to his usual seat in a bumbling manner, his face composed in such a way as to betray that he was already guilty of some transgression. Still nothing outside the ordinary was hinted at from Dr. Lecter's perception, having grown quite used to the layer of anxiety forever clouding Froideveaux's movements. He could understand how the routine of their meetings offered him the comfort of landmarks, metaphorical lookout points at which he could stop at and see with greater clarity what was around him.

Franklin had long been a patient of his and as simple-minded as the man initially appeared, he drew himself and his psychiatrist through endless mazes which often led them back to where they began. He knew a part of this was due to the fact that self-awareness did not always entail the possession of the form of will power necessary to follow through with the necessary resolutions one has made. As long as Franklin Froideveaux could live with his faults, the pressure for change was not a sufficiently oppressing force. He would often complain of his feelings of loneliness and isolation, his fears and self-doubts, yet his life was one of over-all comfort. He had a stable job as a bookkeeper for a law firm which allowed him to keep to himself for the most part, he had a handful of casual acquaintances who filled some of the gap for social interaction, and for the rest of his needs he was appeased by his sessions with Hannibal. As long as he attended his sessions, Franklin believed that he was on a steady course towards progress, it motivated him to improve himself not only for his own sake but for the purpose of winning Dr. Lecter's favour. Beside his rational judgement, he believed himself to be Hannibal's key project, his star student so to speak. That is why it pained him immensely to see the cracks in such an illusion. His obsession with the other man must be constantly fed and to see signs of disapproval, or worse yet, disinterest.

The two men took their seats opposite to each other in the dimly lit room, the storm created the semblance of something ominous that was about to take place, though neither could say what that may be in the medium that was their ingrained routine. Shifting in his seat, Franklin made up his mind at last.

"I got a promotion today," the man spoke up, looking at Hannibal's face with expectations.

"How does that feel?" Dr. Lecter uttered the banal phrase Franklin urged for, the queue for the soliloquy which he longed to get off his chest.

Franklin felt that Dr. Lecter was the proverbial narrator of his life through which all vital information must pass through for it to become a tangible aspect of his reality. Any pinnacle thought or experience must be signed and sealed by him for it truly have taken place. It had become an ingrained part of his thought process, often times he would voice his opinions and anecdotes to a figure in his consciousness that took the form of Dr. Lecter, a man that appeared to him as both silent and objective. Apart from his intentions, he would oftentimes find himself rehearsing what he would say during the next therapy session, knowing that very little of this material would be presented in the same manner. His anxiety would often jumble the content so that only the unadorned facts could be spat out, or most often, something banal that would instigate further embarrassment. Froideveaux could oftentimes feel something of disapproval in Hannibal's cold expression if he strained to look too deeply into him and so this was something he tried to avoid for the most part. His eyes would skirt over the other man's figure, avoiding the eyes. Franklin admired his elegance and composure, his ultimate goal was nothing less than to emulate this idol. For Franklin, Dr. Lecter represented strength and stability, the two qualities which he was lacking in, the two qualities which would pull him out of isolation so he believed.

Franklin mulled over the question, he had expected it yet did not allow himself the opportunity to dull the pleasure of it by having already construed an answer. Still, a response came freely to him.

"I feel very happy, of course," he chuckled, feeling himself to be a fool. Franklin hoped to utter something of the profound by his every word, to contrive an image of himself that was fascinating to the doctor, even to the point of the theatrical. "B-but it's bittersweet in a way. I know this isn't true but I feel like I don't deserve it – or rather that what I do isn't important, what I'm being paid for. I mean if I died nothing would really change, they would get someone else to keep track of the credits and debits, no matter how much effort I put into my job it does not get any more important," Froideveaux struggled to put his thoughts into words, aware of how badly he expressed the sentiments he felt so deeply within. He could almost anticipate Dr. Lecter's response. A typical case of an unsatisfying career choice. Franklin did not want to be a typical case, this was his hour to be seen and scrutinized as a man who tended to be ignored or avoided in his everyday life.

Hannibal watched as Franklin gesticulated his words, hearing them in excerpts. The emotions reflected by the man's body were far more poignant and elucidating: his rigid posture, the beads of perspiration trailing down his forehead and the prominent stains under his arms, the restlessness of his hands, the reddish tint of his face. It reminded him of someone who had something stuck in his throat, something that was choking him, yet still he relentlessly desired to speak. Dr. Du Maurier's words echoed in his mind against his wishes - _person suit, human veil, it must be lonely, I have friends and the opportunity for friends. Its meticulous construction. A version of yourself _– he found them almost nauseating yet threatening at their core. It disgusted him to see fragments of himself reflected in Franklin. The man had a taste for music and the arts, he was a gourmand, his clothing was immaculately tailored and tasteful. Deep down Franklin held himself in respect yet this in itself shamed him, not from gentlemanly modesty but from the fear of being a gargoyle of his ideals, that shame was the beginning and the end of him. Dr. Lecter could not help but contemplate if the disgust he felt for the other was truly his own reflection, a perfect parody of his own pursuit of control, knowledge and refinement.

If he did not have the power to disassociate himself from emotional pain and the fear of social isolation, he pondered if this was what he would become. It was the burden that came with an acute sense of self-awareness, the endless dissection of one's own mind and that of others. It exhausted him and thus he preferred to remain veiled, eliminating the need to dwell too deeply into his most captivating subject, at the most inopportune of times.

"You feel that you are valuable as a commodity rather than as a human being," Hannibal echoed the other's thoughts with a greater semblance of clarity. "Your promotion shows you that you are of worth but there is still the awareness that you are replaceable and the product of your labours expires in value very quickly. This goes back to your dissatisfaction with your line of work, you feel that you are worthy of something greater yet make no effort to pursue it. You are afraid of change, more so of failure," Dr. Lecter express his analysis concisely and then turned his gaze to the patient, foreseeing the glint in his eyes that betrayed his eagerness to speak. Franklin gluttonously swallowed the attention he received, in the end feeling no less thirsty for it. Franklin leaned towards Dr. Lecter in his chair as he listened, his mind enthralled by the other's voice. The doctor had the aura of confidence and could so easily capture the words that eluded him. Deep down the man did not know if the other's thoughts were in accordance to his own but as they were spoken he placed the utmost faith in them.

Hannibal wondered if he could push Froideveaux in any direction of his choosing and the man would follow, fueled by his desire to please and to excite.


	3. Chapter 3

"You are unhappy, but comfortable," Hannibal spoke, breaking the silence.

Franklin did not know how to respond, there was something unusually poignant about the remark. He felt as though there was little left to say. Deep down his dissatisfaction was not really in his work but in his aversion to change in general, in conflict with his desire for it. As Hannibal had said, fear was his obstacle. It seemed so very simple, cliché even, and this caused Franklin's brows to furrow more than the problem itself. He knew that Hannibal was unimpressed.

The man hesitated for a moment, becoming aware of the excess of his perspiration masked by a musky cologne. He reached into his pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper.

"This is something I wrote last night, I thought I would share it with you," Franklin presented the paper to Dr. Lecter, avoiding his eyes and instead looking at the other's lips. He no longer wished to talk about his job. He watched as the Hannibal's tongue passed over them but could not say whether it was from anticipation, a shared nervousness, or simply to wet his lips.

Dr. Lecter unfolded the sheet with due care, observant of the revelry with which the man across from him held its contents. As his eyes scanned the page he came to realize that he was reading a poem:

_Glimpses in crystal surrounded by fog,_

_Nothing glistens like a memory,_

_To reach out and touch its relics,_

_Always calling for the master's return,_

_Time and time again in whirls the mind about,_

_The sound of laughter, the feeling of bliss,_

_Forever numb to pain, the scars having healed,_

_Pain is but a flat caricature, a laughable thing,_

_As though it never existed but as parody._

_The present is always the obstructer,_

_Past and Future pulling at it on its edges,_

_Making it insensible._

"I-I wrote it last night," Franklin repeated, as though to urge the other to speak as Hannibal looked at him with mild surprise and a hint of amusement. He did not know if it was truly there, it always felt to him as though he was being laughed at but in that moment he very much wished it was not so, that it was merely paranoia.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tell me about this poem," Hannibal asked an open-ended question, allowing his patient to divulge as much or as little about it as he desired, in hopes that he had not swayed him in one direction or other by his response.

As with any form of expression, it was not always easy to filter through what was truly worthy of the name art and what was drivel. Hannibal caught the perceptual bias to cast the piece of writing into the category of the latter on the basis of his intimate knowledge of the man who had written it. On the contrary, many geniuses were marked by a social-ineptness, were prone to gradations of mental illness, particularly depression and several forms of neuroticism.

Initially it may seem counterintuitive that a destructive illness could be associated with imagination or great works of art. Yet the perceived association is a persistent cultural belief and one that is backed by data from many studies. The argument is not that depressive illnesses and their related temperaments are essential to creative work; clearly they are not. Nor are most people with mental illness creative; they are not. The argument is, rather, that a disproportionate number of eminent writers and artists have suffered from bipolar spectrum disorders and that, under some circumstances, creativity can be facilitated by such disorders. However, it has been found that in many cases, people who have disorders and are creative are better able to express themselves creatively when they are being appropriately treated for their illness. Research also suggests that over time depressive and bipolar illnesses gnaw away at creativity. In a study done with children, researchers found a negative correlation of illness duration with creativity; the longer the children were sick, the less creative they were. So overall, the illness becomes a hindrance to creativity, rather than a help.

He was well aware of these facts yet he could not fully ignore the emotional response. Considering the poem again, he could see the themes of disassociation, longing, and loss. Franklin sought to cling onto an illusion, he was aware of a disconnection from reality and the present but it did not fully impede his ability to take pleasure in the abstract notion he referred to. It was cherished and well fed.

A certain narcissism within led Hannibal to wonder if the poem held a reference to himself. It did not escape him that there was a reason for why Franklin had brought it to him outside of seeking an outside interpretation. This was partially why Hannibal took special care to keep any signs of emotion from filtering through during their sessions together. He knew that Franklin analyzed him as vigorously as an investigator would a convict, with what degree of accuracy and to what end it could not be said. Hannibal imagined that his consistently cold and professional demur would in time corrode whatever fantasy was fueling the man's obsession, ultimately pushing him into some form of desperate act in search of reassurance. He did not know what form this would take but he doubted that Franklin was of the disposition to surrender quietly and civilly. Dr. Lecter hoped to anticipate this breaking point before it was too late and submit a referral to another psychiatrist. In the end it would spare Franklin greater pain and embarrassment.

Dr. Lecter felt a pang of shame at the thoughts which were crossing his mind as the man in front of him had been speaking for some time. Still, Hannibal could not deny that the poem had made an impact on him. Not entirely due to its content but as a token, an audacious grab for personal connection. He hoped that the beginning of the monologue was not particularly critical to the analysis.

"…And then the abyss closed, I don't know how long I had been falling but for some reason I didn't feel scared," Franklin had begun to sweat more profusely than earlier. "Then I saw you at the bottom, we were in a field and you were laying down and these rats were crawling out of your sleeves. You did not look dead but the rats were there, just running and running, they were coming out of you like crazy!"

Dr. Lecter had a puzzled look on this face before he realized that the man must be sharing a dream, likely the influence behind the poem. He listened while Franklin carried on emphasizing how disturbed he had been by the fiasco that was the vermin while pulling from his memory some trinket of information that his patient would appreciate. Clearly he attached some prophetic meaning and depth to the dream and its symbolism, however contrived.

"Rats are a symbol of disease," Dr. Lecter said sharply, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair as he prepared for a long discussion centered around the fantasy. He wanted to see if any of the negative characteristics presented to him would make a significant impact on the man and his idealization. His goal however was not to deviate from the mythos of dreams and the sinister nature of the one Franklin had shared provided ample material. "Not only because they carry plague but also because they infest a house, which is a symbol of the body, " he went on, "They may depict something else that is physically repulsive or sexually obscene to the dreamer, or be images of his morbid outlook. Somebody whom the dreamer unconsciously thinks of as a 'rat' – someone likely to be disloyal and leave the sinking ship first, someone who is devouring you."

Franklin looked terribly uneasy as he had begun chewing on his lip in nervousness, he felt as though he had done a great wrong by sharing his creative work. It felt as though he had carelessly thrown an insult at the esteemed doctor. Still, he could not deny that a part of him had been aware of the negative connotation ascribed to Dr. Lecter in the dream, a part of him wished to share it. Deep down Franklin despised both himself and the man across for him for his emotional subjugation, without little hope of it being transformed into something healthier.

"Out of all of the psychiatrists I had visited you are the one I that have been most open with," Franklin reassured him, not considering whether his words were true or not. "You have helped me see deeper into myself than I ever thought possible! I know we will make more progress as the year goes on. Of course I trust you, it—it was only a dream. It probably didn't mean anything, I don't even know why I shared it, I guess I just kept thinking about it since I usually don't have such vivid dreams. It doesn't matter, it really doesn't," Franklin twisted and turned his hands as he spoke.

"Not inherently perhaps but the impact it had on you after dwelling on it is a sign that at least on a subconscious level you harbor mistrust or animosity towards me," Hannibal did not allow the man to evade, seeing from his prior reaction that there was something he wished to hide with fervor. "Do you feel comfortable speaking to me during our sessions? Do you feel that my methods are agreeable to you?"

"Y-yes of course," Franklin nodded enthusiastically with a quizzical expression on his plump face. He thought for a moment before he posed his next question. "What do you believe Dr. Lecter –does the dream matter?"

"You may think of dreams as memories and fragments of the subconscious," Hannibal replied. "Some psychologists believe that they tell us what we need, as well as what we desire, in order to be complete. Dreaming involves directing the dreamer's attention especially to whatever he is most in danger of ignoring or rejecting in his everyday waking attitudes. However another opinion is that the experience of a dream is an epiphenomenon, a by-product of neurobiological processes within the brain. Regardless of which theory you believe, the impact the dream has made on you is significant."

"You mean the fact that I chose not to ignore it," said Franklin.

"Yes," Dr. Lecter glanced at the clock on the wall, the hour was almost up.


	5. Chapter 5

Froideveaux chuckled apprehensively in the tense silence that had set in. He had collected his thoughts and prepared the response long before he set foot in Dr. Lecter's office. The man turned the words over in his mind, unable to speak them outright. Suddenly, the buzzing sound of a doorbell interrupted the suspense in which Franklin believed he had held Dr. Lecter.

Hannibal considered for moment whether or not to interrupt the therapy session but in the end decided in favour of it, given Franklin's apparent loss for words. It would give his patient time to regain his composure, he reasoned.

"Excuse me," Dr. Lecter got up from his armchair and made his way downstairs to the main entrance. A package had arrived.

Slightly disappointed by the anticlimactic turn of events, Franklin took the opportunity to look around the room, first from the vantage point of his seat and then by way of an inquisitive stroll about the office. He glanced at Hannibal's desk out of the corner of his eye, as though someone were watching and would shame him for his snooping. But of course his curiosity overpowered his manners as he at last dived in to flip through a sketch book laid closed on the mahogany table.

Froideveaux delighted in wonder as he saw a multitude of portraits, landscapes, still-lifes, and anatomical drawings, as enthralled by the subject of the works as by the great care of the cross-hatching. The doctor must have a very steady hand, he smiled a little.

As he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the staircase Franklin had done what had surprised even himself; in an almost frantic gesture he dashed back to his seat and slipped the sketchbook into his briefcase, crossing his legs and taking on the semblance of a man who had been waiting impatiently. It occurred to him to whistle, but then that would be far contrived.

"Mr. Froideveaux, I hope I have not kept you waiting long," said Hannibal upon his return, he had taken off his suit-jacket and carried a stamped and wrapped brown box which he set down next to the door. "I have been expecting a delivery tomorrow but it appears that it has arrived early," Dr. Lecter informed him, revealing little as to the contents of the package.

"Oh it's no problem at all, I guess we are just about done here anyways," Franklin made a point of looking at his watch as he said this, for the first time he was eager to leave Dr. Lecter's office, feeling the burden of the stolen item as though it were a ticking time-bomb. "Thank you Dr. Lecter," he hoped to overcompensate by shaking hands with Hannibal on his way out the door, his plump fingers of his other hand wrapped tightly around the handle of his briefcase.

Hannibal looked at him with an expression of mild surprise, a little taken aback by his eagerness to depart. There were still two minutes left and Franklin was known to make the most of his hour.

It took some mental effort for Franklin Froideveaux to keep himself from rushing down the stairs on his way to his car, the relief was almost blissful as he pulled out of the parking lot on his teal coloured Honda. While he drove his eyes kept wandering to the briefcase lying on the passenger seat, much as though it were a seductive mistress joining him on a dinner date. Meanwhile his facial expression went through several transitions of elation, horror, anxiety, and excitement.

...

Hannibal felt rather worn from the day's therapy sessions. As he locked the door behind Froideveaux he felt something unusual about the ambiance of the house. The emptiness that was once a welcomed trait seemed rather oppressing in its own way. While Dr. Lecter was in the midst of gathering his notes a flash of lightening lit up the room from the window before plunging it into darkness. Hannibal stood still as he opened and closed his eyes, adjusting to the dark. With exasperation he tried the light switch vainly before searching his cabinet for some candles, dissatisfied with resigning himself to the fact that there was no electricity in the house. Preparing a sumptuous dinner would most likely have to be postponed.

At last finding some matches, Hannibal was able to light a pair of candles, arranging them on the dinner table by a hand-painted baroque-style plate, a finely embroidered napkin, and a set of silver cutlery. Making the best of the situation, Dr. Lecter searched in the fridge for a light meal.

Getting out a well-used cutting board and knife, Dr. Lecter diced about a pound of fresh crab meat from the freezer, a quarter cup of celery and about as much of red pepper. Once this was done, he mixed them in a bowl and then added a dash of garlic powder, Dijon mustard, Tabasco sauce, Italian dressing and lastly the mayonnaise to give it a creamy texture.

Hannibal served himself a portion of his dish by candlelight with some fresh bread from the local bakery along with half a glass of Champagne. When Dr. Lecter at last sat down for his dinner he savoured each morsel, in perfect unity with the atmosphere and the drink. The wine should be white, not too oaky, fairly crisp with acidity and minerality. Richer, more buttery, oakier whites ought to be saved for lobster. Champagne on the other hand was the expert choice for a creamy or crispy dish of crab.

For dessert, he treated himself to the Coconut-Cardamom ice cream he had prepared several nights before, knowing that it would go to waste otherwise if the electricity stayed off for much of the night. The refreshing dessert was made from a blend of whole milk and coconut milk, shredded dried coconut for texture, ground caramon, and a dash of dark rum and maple syrup for sweetness. He served it in a dish of white porcelain crafted in a modern oriental style and let the spoonfuls of ice melt on his tongue. Hannibal reveled in the small pleasures that the delicate palette of his tongue allowed him, followed by a few hours of reading before bed.

As he was about to settle to sleep it occurred to him that he had forgotten about the package.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, Hannibal was relieved to find that the electricity had come back on and after doing an inventory of the fridge, there were no signs of drips or thawing. For breakfast he decided on ham and Gruyère waffle tartines. The ham just so happened to be from his reserve of a particularly obnoxious accountant who had the audacity to dent his car and drive off without so much as an apology. Needless to say the man had saved himself some paperwork and had since then taken center stage at several sumptuous dinner parties.

While Hannibal sipped his morning tea the urge to revisit Freud's 'The Interpretation of Dreams' had come to him, undoubtedly due to the previous day's appointment with Froideveaux. He particularly enjoyed a section on the various experiments that had been done on the bodies of individuals who were asleep; how slight sensory sensations seemed to have been incorporated into the dream realm. The most famous of such scenarios was of a man who dreamt of behind beheaded and felt a sharp pain around his neck, when he awoke he saw that a part of his bed had broke and fell atop of him exactly as the blade in his dream had. The book went on to retell various such curious incidents which Dr. Lecter took with a grain of salt. Some such concepts remain relevant nonetheless, modern oneirologists assert that even slight sensory stimulation such as that of scent could influence the ambiance of dreams, pleasant smells evoking pleasant dreams and so forth, showing how the active senses still feed fragments of the dreamscape.

Once finished with his morning meal, Hannibal went on to check his itinerary for the day's appointments, recalling that he was expecting a man by the name Sebastian Mellis shortly, a new patient which had been referred to him from the emergency room. As he was about to leave the desk the absence of a valued possession caught his eye. He knew that it was unlike himself to leave his scalpel and pencils while putting away his sketchbook, leading him to deduce that the item must have been taken by a certain bumbling neurotic in his care. His reaction to this conclusion was one of some distress and resentment towards the lowly man, followed by the assurance that he may easily serve him as a fat-laden cutlet with oregano sauce.

However, he decided against this for the time being, much to his own surprise a certain curiosity was piqued by Franklin's brazen theft. Surely the patient knew that his actions would not go unnoticed. The very fact that the anxious fellow would be so uncharacteristically daring for the sake of a keepsake made him wish to see the episode to its conclusion. Was it a thoughtless crime of passion, so to speak, or was it a planned provocation? Hannibal mused. It interested Dr. Lecter to see the effect the images in the sketchbook would produce upon Franklin and his idealization. He had no doubt that a reaction could be observable on the other's visage in spite of how he would struggle to suppress it, or rather because of this very struggle. For once, the anticipation with which Franklin awaited his appointments was mutual, motives aside.

After the described resolution, Dr. Lecter at last addressed his attention to the package that had come the previous evening. It was this very package which most likely provided an opportunity for his patient's caper, he realized.

Taking the scalpel from his desk, Hannibal slid the instrument through the tape and opened the cardboard box laden with several layers of wrapping. Inside lay François Boucher's 1740 rendering of the myth, 'Leda and the Swan'; once he carefully unwrapped the antique artwork, Dr. Lecter took some time in surveying its minute details, allowing it a place of honor above his fireplace. It was provocative, certainly, but to him that was part of the appeal. It brazenly conveyed a distorted, surreal, sexuality without the aid of any form of vulgarity. It was bold but at the same time made docile by the fair complexion and facade of innocence of the two figures. There was something rather uncanny about Leda's expression, contrary to the sensual theme of the painting's inspiration. Her face lacked sensuality or fear, much as the mute swan, yet the position of her body and the hands firmly clutching her robe hinted at a peculiar assertiveness. To Hannibal both creatures appeared to be fuelled not by carnal need but by a curiosity for the epicurean in itself. He enjoyed the stark contrast of the characters to the position in which they were cast.

Swans are known to mate for life, though overall they are rather aggressive and territorial birds to romanticize. But perhaps a certain violence and ardour develops naturally with a passionate form of love that comes with absolute devotion. The sacrifice of humanity, a lover so overcome by the pain of opposition in obtaining his beloved that his usually docile nature is twisted into madness. Dr. Lecter saw it as an animal brutality that is not clouded by reason but instead is lead forth by pure instinct, creating the illusion of courage and valour, where instead there is merely blindness.

The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of Mr. Sebastian Mellis.

...

_W.B Yeat's 'Leda and the Swan':_

_A sudden blow: the great wings beating still_

_Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed_

_By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,_

_He holds her helpless breast upon his breast._

_How can those terrified vague fingers push_

_The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?_

_And how can body, laid in that white rush,_

_But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?_

_A shudder in the loins engenders there_

_The broken wall, the burning roof and tower_

_And Agamemnon dead._

_Being so caught up,_

_So mastered by the brute blood of the air,_

_Did she put on his knowledge with his power_

_Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?_


	7. Chapter 7

A man in his late sixties sat across from Dr. Lecter. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and well worn loafers, his eyes had a watery gaze about them while he sat frozen in his chair. Sebastian looked at the doctor with an impartial expression, neither anxious nor eager for his first appointment. The man's face appeared drawn and angular, and a sagacious beard grew from his chin. From his medical records, Hannibal found that Mr. Sebastian Mellis had seen some tumulus times with his younger brother who suffered from depression and schizophrenia. For many years the two gentleman had managed to keep the situation contained, yet it appeared that their subdued conflicts had accumulated into a climax which had gotten the police involved.

"Please, take a seat," Hannibal ushered the man inside, opening a fresh journal to take preliminary notes on the new patient.

"Thank you," Mr. Mellis sat down, his hands on his lap. He had anticipated the beginning of the session as being rather uncomfortable but hoped that in time he would be able to open up. There was a certain comfort in being able to speak to someone whom he did not have to see again if he so desired, unlike with family, friend or even acquaintances. It seemed considerably more difficult to disentangle oneself from such relations.

"Tell me how you are feeling today," Dr. Lecter asked, choosing the question from his standard repertoire as a logical way to begin, by getting an impression of the man's emotional state, even in the short-term.

There was a long silence as Sebastian took his time formulating a response, he was a man with an affinity for accuracy but likewise felt strongly that there was too much to encompass in a curt answer, which was what he hoped to give. At last he spoke.

"A while has passed since what happened," one hand clung to the wrist of the other as he made his reply in muffled words. "A few months – but I still think of him, my brother, almost every day. I know he is sick, I know he probably won't get better, I know there is little I can do to help him but I still feel that I cannot abandon him..."

Hannibal jotted down how Mr. Mellis spoke of the man in victimized terms, almost absolving him from blame. He described the near fatal incident as the outcome of the brother's illness rather than manipulation. The man was remembered as something sick, feeble, and helpless that would be cold to righteously abandon, Hannibal sensed. Sebastian still wished to help him rather than blame him.

"...Everyone I have spoken to has told me to let go, that he will only pull me down with him on a dangerous road but all these things – all that is logical, my thoughts do not obey it. I feel that if he were to show up at my doorstep I would not leave him out in the rain, come what may," once he had a train of thought it was difficult for it to come to a halt, one memory connected to another and then another, each poignant and fresh as though it was only yesterday. They were kept fresh by constant reflection and regurgitation of the past.

Dr. Lecter allowed the man to speak, glad that he did so with surprising ease. It was a sign that Sebastian had likely been forced to retell his story time and time again to various authorities, 'for the record' they would tell him, due to his involvement in court proceedings.

"Your brother planned for your death yet you still have affection towards him, it is understandable given the strong relationship you had with him," said Hannibal.

"Yes, he was the only friend I had, the only one I felt comfortable talking with," Sebastian told him. "Now I talk to anyone that wants to listen," he chuckled. "These things – they don't matter anymore, all my secrets and shames are out. What does it matter if one more is to know? They laugh at me and talk behind my back, th-they imagine something incestuous between us. It angers me," Mr. Mellis looked at Hannibal sternly, besides his intentions.

"Who are 'they'?" Hannibal needed to clarify.

"Oh the nurses! The doctors! The lot of them that ask me this and that with their fake sympathy."

Dr. Lecter wrote down 'possible paranoia' given the man's past reclusive and secretive nature as well as the present belief that he was being ridiculed behind his back by medical professionals. Yet knowing that not all professionals behaved accordingly it was not impossible that he had heard snide remarks behind his back.

"How would you define your relationship with your brother?" Hannibal posed the next question.

"I-it was always very emotional, always fueled by strong emotions," the man coughed, pulling out a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"How long had you lived with him?"

"All my life, once we moved out from our parents we shared a flat, we went to the same university, we did everything together. We – we were very dependant on each other, my brother and I had always been quiet boys, it was difficult making friends and of course we both had our quirks and peculiar interests."

"What sort of interests?"

"Books and films, mainly classics, that tended to lean on the darker side. We were both drawn by the controversial, I preferred thoughts, however, while he preferred actions, he was always the bolder one of the two of us. He felt that he could do anything, that no one was above him in the hierarchy. Sometimes he would tell me that he was more than human, that he was one of the first of a new era of higher beings in the evolutionary cycle."

"And how did you react to such statements?"

"I knew that they were early signs of his mental state deteriorating, that he was prone to delusion. I never wanted to believe it was schizophrenia. I wanted to think that he was just different, that it was just some form of narcissism, egoism, something...manageable. He finished university with honours, he was pursuing a career, he was a hardworking man who seemed to have his life in order. I thought everything would be alright, that those thoughts would pass. Then there was the depression, he would change during those times when it got very bad, he'd feel worthless – he said I was feeding off of him if I tried to comfort him. "

"When did you first become aware that he suffered from depression?"

"Well...I can't say really, in a way it was always a part of him, or at least the way I see him now, it is hard to say when."

"How are you coping with his absence?"

Mr. Mellis paused, reflecting over the situation.

"At first it was very difficult to get by day by day. When I was at the emergency room they kept asking me if I had any more thoughts of harming myself, I did, always, but I knew I couldn't keep saying that, they wouldn't let me leave if I did. At some point I didn't know if I wanted to leave, I wanted someone to help me but at the same time I didn't believe anyone could. I read plenty about psychology, I know many of the tricks and gimmicks as I used to call them. Perhaps all in all I know very little, but I have yet a meet a shrink that impresses me, that truly helps me heal in a way that's different than just talking to a friend would help me heal. Not to put any pressure on you sir, I don't expect much and it's reasonable that there isn't much that can be done, we're all human aren't we? Not miracle workers, these things just need time. It's like a death in the family to me, it feels like I lost him, like he's gone for good. I know sooner or later the restraining order will pass but still, when I see him again he will be a changed man in my eyes."

"Has the effect of time helped considerably yet?"

"Yes, I would say it has. In a way being stuck at the hospital for two weeks made me realize how I still had it in me to pull myself together unlike the many lost souls in the mental health ward, some of them had been there for months! For a long time I was scared to go back into the real world but I felt some sort of shame, it was stronger than my fear, I did not want to be patronized anymore, I did not want my brother to have that much control over me. I did everything I could to get my life back together again. Once I was out I searched for part-time work and volunteering. It really raised by hopes to get to play with the orchestra like I used to even if it was just the one concert. I used to play the cello professionally for many years," Mr. Mellis was proud to tell him.

"It is good to occupy one's time with other interests in the midst of the loss of a loved one," said Hannibal, deciding to use the other man's analogy of his situation being much like the brother had passed away, given the prolonged absence and the betrayal.

"That's what everyone kept telling me. That I just have to keep busy otherwise I would do nothing but replay those memories of him. I would read the letters we wrote to each other over and over. It pained me to see how little love there was on his side, how he would just mirror my words and they would mean very little in that way. He did not live up to them, I denied it for a long time but now I know it is true."

"Yet you still hold on to him emotionally."

"It will take time."

"Indeed, but do you feel that distancing yourself from him is the right thing to do?"

"That's what everyone tells me I ought to do. Everyone, unanimously."

"What do you feel?"

"I-I don't know."

Hannibal saw that this was the crux of the man's pain; logically he was aware that the relationship with his brother was toxic but emotionally he held on to an idealized form of him. He had been his only form of emotional support so naturally it was a difficult bond break. It was easier to view the brother as a victim than as an abuser, given that Mr. Mellis had little faith in the man's mental state improving. Ultimately he had to make a firm decision whether to cut the brother off from his life or remain with him at the risk of his own safety and well-being, so far he had avoided making this choice. Hannibal did not wish to voice this view too soon, however, he needed to better gage what sort of man the brother had been and the circumstances of the relationship.

"Is there anything else that you would like to tell me about your relationship with your brother?" he asked a final question to wrap up, knowing that their session was almost at its end.

"Well...I guess you probably find it strange, how close we had been," Sebastian looked down at his feet in mild embarrassment as he spoke. "I know professionals aren't meant to think this or that but as I said, we're human, all of us. I just want you to know that it was a very passionate relationship between my brother and I, but a pure one. We live in isolation from the world, we made our own world together. Romantic, perhaps, but never sexual. I had felt that my previous psychiatrist had taken the liberty of making certain assumptions which I found offensive. I just hope the scenario will not be repeated."

"I assure you that I am not one to make rash conclusions or pass judgement, I am here to help you find stability in your life again," Dr. Lecter reassured him.

"Thank you. I-I hope this goes somewhere," Mr. Mellis looked up at Hannibal.

"That depends on you Mr. Mellis."

"Of course."

"Now before you leave I would like to give you a set of questionnaires to fill out at home," Dr. Lecter handed the man a binder he had prepared beforehand. "Please answer the questions in an open and honest manner, all of your responses will be kept confidential."

"Alright."


	8. Chapter 8

Almost passing through a few red lights, Franklin's rather emotionally exhilarating drive had come to an end as he reached his bungalow home in the suburbs. Grabbing the suitcase, he trotted to the door, fumbling furiously with his full ring of keys until at last he was inside. The man made sure to lock the door behind himself on a paranoid whim that he had been followed, as even such a seemingly insignificant theft made his stomach churn. In effort to console himself from his guilt, he framed the scenario as being much like a giddy school girl taking a peak into her best friend's diary. Perhaps there may even be a way to return the sketchbook once he committed every inch of it to memory, though of course this was doubtful. Already he was fearful of Dr. Lecter's reaction if he were ever to confront him about it.

Franklin laughed nervously, clearing his table with a sweep of his arm to make room for the sacred object. He set it down on the scratched oak surface and turned on a dusty table lamp that illuminated the black leather cover with a warm hue. The man took a deep breath and exhaled sharply as though in preparation for a strenuous task. He grinned from ear to ear while he turned the pages carefully, the expression on his face alternating between shock and delight like a grotesque clown.

He was mindful not to smudge the delicate pencil, meanwhile his eyes devoured a myriad of peculiar images.

On the first page was a dissection of the muscles of an arm, then at least six torsos complete with kidneys, liver, intestines, and all else in intricate detail, then a back, hands, and spinal cord followed by three diagrams of the human brain on the next few pages. These were much like an introduction to ease him into a subject of study which he could more thoroughly appreciate. Following the series of anatomical drawings was a portrait of a young man, he appeared much like an Adonis rendered in the classical Greek style. He had soft feminine features and presumably golden locks, his face was shown with various alterations on the next ten pages. Franklin wondered if he had been drawn from imagination, memory or a living model. It intrigued him to find out what place this young man held in Dr. Lecter's life, though he could certainly see that he was meant to be the subject of an artist.

The sketchbook grew progressively bold, showing uncanny scenes of Mayan sacrificial rituals and carnivorous pagan gods. Then there were the hellish landscapes from Gustave Dore's etchings illuminating Dante's _Inferno_ with which he was familiar, followed by an intermission of exquisite dancers at a masquerade. Then he set eyes on three hermaphrodite nymphs reclining by a lake surrounded by pines, then a peculiar interpretation of Medusa, a sickly-looking African man with a long beard, and a chimera. Franklin passed over ten pages of bird, deer, and dog dissections to more studies of the human form.

The most striking of the drawings was a surrealist sketch of Dr. Lecter laid out nude and maimed on a table while a set of twins of himself were carving the body onto serving platters. One looked mournful, the other disgusted, while the man being served seemed morbidly content. Franklin felt poignant but ambiguous emotions about the piece, it was both erotic and sinister, which seemed to be the theme for the rest of the collection of drawings, save for the last few pages which were portraits of an rather plain looking man with a scruffy look about him. Franklin did not know what to make of him.

Once he had gone through the book page by page he decided to pour himself a glass of wine, put on a record, and look at his favourites once more, this time taking his time in analyzing them.

First he returned to a page filled by the grotesque figure of an obese woman, layers upon layers of fat hanging about her. Franklin could not help but wonder what appeal Dr. Lecter saw in the mass of flesh, she seemed much like a great carnival attraction. It was altogether vulgar, the man thought,

The expression upon the woman's face was very woeful indeed as three black dogs circled about her feet like flees.

Another page depicted a man with a dark beard and a plump round face, Franklin dared to wonder if there was an association with himself to be found. This seemingly familiar figure was wrapped in an embrace with a serpent, it was difficult to say whether the man was being killed or caressed by the scaled creature. Again the erotic undertones did not evade him.

The third sketch which he would savour that night was a more endearing depiction of the doctor than the one previously mentioned. It showed the nude form of Dr. Lecter kneeling by a window holding a white dress. Franklin's eyes admired the peculiarly delicate limbs, the crook of the man's arched back made him appear quite frightened and pitiful. The vulnerability was beautiful in its own way, Franklin pondered.

Until then he had not paid much attention to the music in the background but as Michael Jackson's '_You Are Not Alone'_ began to play he could not help but be moved by its soft melody and lyrics in accordance with the image he was looking at. He set down his wine glass and looked closer at Hannibal's face in the drawing as though he were looking into the man's soul. Franklin felt that deep down Hannibal also felt the pain of loneliness and it was a gift that he had seen past the exterior through the help of the sketchbook. He wished to save Hannibal from himself, from the distorted ideas that covered page upon page and hold him close in his arms. A part of him already imagined that they had met for a reason, by fate, by destiny. It shamed him to think how many times a day memories of Hannibal would pass through his mind, it was more than infatuation Franklin assured himself. It would be a beautiful romance of two broken souls coming together. Franklin closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as he imagined the long-awaited romance that was to come. He was fully convinced that he had seen deep into Dr. Lecter's heart, something he alone had the opportunity to do, and that one day Hannibal would let him in. If only he could make him see, Franklin thought, closing the book at last.

All through the night he tossed and turned, unable to sleep in anticipation of their next appointment. He had so much he wished he could ask Dr. Lecter, if only it were not necessary to keep the secret of the stolen artworks.

That night he allowed himself the indulgence of fantasizing about the man romantically. The image from the sketchbook, of Dr. Lecter huddled on the floor was carefully perched on his bedside table, Franklin's eyes constantly drawn to it as it fueled his imagination. It did not take him long to reach his climax as he thought of being entangled in the warmth and affection of the other's body, yet what followed was not euphoria but a pang of sadness which clouded his conscience. Feelings of worthlessness and fear turned on him, he imagined the doctor's loathing and sinister nature in contrast to the effeminate image that gazed out the window. Dr. Lecter seemed in mourning, as though he were a widower and Franklin had allowed himself to defile the image of him. He felt disgust with himself, a part of him certain that Dr. Lecter found him physically and likely emotionally repulsive. It would be only out of desperation that the object of his obsessions would return his affection.

Franklin barely slept two hours that night, though he was forced to wake up early that morning for work. He did not know how he would bear it, his banal desk job, his guilt. His mind flitted back and forth between feeling his emotions were innocent to finding them truly revolting and himself pathetic.

His eyes followed the minute hand of the clock on the wall across from his desk. Soon, soon he would see Dr. Lecter again.


	9. Chapter 9

Mr. Mellis sat at his breakfast table, a cup of warm coffee in his hands. His eyes stared vacantly out the window, his mind elsewhere. Many times he had drilled himself with the mantra that the past must be forgotten yet through the moments of solitude during the day memories would stream back.

Through the wear of time and Sebastian's efforts to suppress them, they had become something vague and nebulous, like a cloud of darkness before a storm rather than tangible photographic pieces. The people he remembered had indefinable faces, they were either diaphanous or demonic and doorways seemed to melt, the floors seemed to shake, he saw in fragments of the senses.

He drew himself out of them forcefully, knowing that to allow himself to slip back in such a way would eventually lead him to the white walls of the emergency ward.

He thought about the mental health unit and the regression into an artificial childhood that it seemed to foster. These memories he remembered clearly. There were board games and crafts and a room full of old video cassettes. It surprised him to see that the themes of these films were not restricted, some were horror movies depicting gruesome murders mixed among the sitcoms and romantic comedies. One of the patients there offered to watch a film about a serial killer with him he recalled, though the name of it escaped him. He found it predictable and unrealistic so he left, in a strange way he hoped to be reminded of the sociopathic persona of his brother in any form. He tried to justify it by telling himself it would help him face his fears and see past the emotional connection that led him on a dangerous path of idealization. Some had called it Stockholm Syndrome, Mr. Mellis could not see the past clearly enough to say yet.

The hospital gowns were comfortable and changed frequently. Nurses came to check on the patients in the middle of the night and asked if they had any thoughts of self-harming. The food, it was always very starchy and filling but tasted unnatural, the menu would finish its cycle each week. He remembered the people who he met there; a willowy man that wandered the halls silently following other patients and visitors like a ghost in slow dragging steps, a heavy-set African woman in a wheelchair who clung for companionship and attention but was often shunned for her too forward manner, a man who claimed to be Lucifer and a woman who claimed to be God. Lucifer was always a prankster, always laughing heartily, while God preached of doomsday to the other patients. It was easy to prefer Lucifer.

There was a treadmill in ward, Sebastian made a point of going there every morning, drowning out his lethargic melancholy thoughts with adrenalin. He also remembered trying to read a self-help book therapists kept offering him by the name of 'The Feel-Good Handbook' by Burns, though from the title it appeared rather mocking in its own way, Sebastian could not place why.

Perhaps it seemed banal. It would take a sociopath to feel good after what many of the patients in the ward had gone through. A nurse had also given him 'Gone with the Wind', it was one of her favourites when she was young but it was not to the tastes of Mr. Mellis. He had trouble empathizing with the trivialities of the day to day lives of the characters, he could not get past the first few chapters.

From time to time police officers had visited him for interrogation. In an odd way he had been both anxious and excited for these visits, a part of him felt that the investigators were his only connection to his brother. At the end of the interrogations he would ask them about him, for the smallest trinkets of information. He got very little but at least it was something. A part of him regretted telling them just about all that he knew, as though he had betrayed his loved one. At the same time he felt it was the right thing to do, the truth would be found sooner or later and he preferred it to be sooner. He needed some form of resolution to the chaos that he had been plunged into and a trial may offer that, his in experience with the justice system allowed him to give proceedings the benefit of the doubt. He wanted to believe that his brother would be helped in the end through proper medical care and therapy. Many had also told him that once his brother pled guilty he may be able to see him again. This was what he believed for a long time, setting aside his better judgement.

He took a sip of the coffee as his thoughts delved deeper into the past. They flitted over the horrid night where he lay in a hospital bed howling in tears, his howls among those of several in the room separated by thin curtains of blue plastic. He remembered taking a bus that day, it circled around the city before the driver asked him if he was alright, that it was the last stop. Sebastian had forced a smile and got off, he only vaguely knew where he was. After a few hours of walking he managed to find his way back home. He could not recall what he had been feeling at the time but he knew he had not been himself. Sebastian vaguely recalled his brother insulting him in some manner, causing him to leave the house again, this time with a plastic bag in which he threw a water bottle, his passport a hundred dollar bill and some small change. Inside was also a drawing torn from a birthday card he had made his brother many years ago, he remembered ripping it during the argument. It was a drawing of the two of them in watercolour and pen in an embrace, he remembered getting very upset when he discovered that it was not there after his stay in the hospital, much more so than for the missing money. He had planned to kill himself that day but he did not know how. He did not want to live as a cripple, as a burden, he did not want to see the reactions.

Mr. Mellis had not know where to go. He remembered laying in a field looking at the sky and the telephone wires above. The man remembered his brother telling him how he had known someone who had tried to electrocute himself to death that way but he only managed to burn his hands. He did not know if this was the truth but it did not matter, for a long time it would often disturb him how morbid his brother was but after a while he had grown used to it. He wondered if he himself had changed, if he had grown complacent on the inside to any perversion. It was a certain numbness that turned into hysteria in the end. He did not want to think about it further, that feeling of loss and helplessness, he had to stand on his own feet now.

Mr. Mellis had gotten rid of many photographs and keepsakes that reminded him of his brother yet he could not manage to let go of the letters they had written to each other.

Although they lived together the two men had established a system of writing long notes for each other in a journal they kept, it was particularly useful during times when one or the other was not bold enough to voice his views or needed to collect his thoughts in a presentable fashion. Sebastian decided that this was the day when he would finally get rid of them, but before he did so, he read them one last time.

...


	10. Chapter 10

My Dearest One,

I had waited very long for today to come, these past months I had lived on small hopes that I may be with you again. I feel a relentless impatience now that this life seems to have taken a new form. It feels as though I have gone back in time, though not far enough, to a time of need and uncertainty. Because I am aware that hope still exists I am left to be tortured by it, each glimmer of it draws me and then repulses me with the final outcome. I wish there was an enemy or an obstacle that could encompass all misfortune but I am no longer filled with hatred nor a soothing numbness that I would find most welcoming. The wickedness of the past appears as something absurd and irrelevant, as though the persons involved were not ourselves but figures that had become possessed by a certain childhood. Pettiness and novice actors but with dangerous props. I struggle to be genuine, I feel as though I am lacking in an identity and cannot help but deceive myself without my own consent. I do not know whether to obey emotion or to cast it away as the greater deception of oneself. The lessons taught by this period in our lives is that both hold their dangers. I turn over memories of us in our mind, wondering who I may have been, how I could have saved us from ourselves. There was a certain desperation about the both of us, the emotion was intoxicating. Any grain of contempt would spark a great flame, how you loathed the sound of it in contrast to your own sound. It was to feel the absence of power and control, a state of furious helplessness, a fitful child. I felt it too, very much so. We both became children, you and I. We could not help it. I keep going back to the past, the memories of you, the places, the objects, they bring me back. There is nowhere I could run from you. You have become more than living, you are a symbol to me as I speak your name like a mantra. Something vague and untouchable, always present but always out of reach, a certain familiar sweetness. Something luxurious that all else may only aspire to. I may pick at and dissect and analyze the memories but this part of you is ethereal and untouchable, always sweet and alluring. You have broken in two, each of absolutes, each haunting me. You are larger than life and stranger than fiction, you are little bits and pieces, if I were to meet you again in flesh and blood you would be but a reference to yourself but how I would adore you. With your many scars and imperfections, your fits of madness, I would embrace you as no other ever shall. That is why you keep me, that is why. None have known you as fully as I do. That is why you begin by displaying your scars, to see who will run and who will stay. You weed out those of a certain disposition, you find the weak or the sickly, but also the curious. The avant-garde, the intellectuals, the eccentric, the extravagant. The exotic euphemisms, waiting to adore and be adored, the dawn of novelty and hope is irresistible. It is pure, it is beautiful, above the grime of reality, it justifies and cleanses. We want to wash your hands and kiss your feet, the beautiful stranger. With open arms, open, open, open, he feels no repulsion, he shows you into his dreams, give him yours, take him in as well. I had always been the narrator but not too long ago I had been drawn out. We both met with utmost precision, we knew we had found someone of significance, someone we would not meet again, surely not. My forgiveness is limitless to the point of weakness yet it cannot be helped. All other emotions orbit around something we may call love, a very impractical thing that comes from a realm of art. I adored it. I want to offer you praise, place you on an infinite pedestal. Take my soul, my mind, my body. Take my money as I grow grotesque. I imagine myself growing slovenly, as something sickly and slow and gluttonous praying to you with madness in my eyes. I could never fight you, I understand too much, a conscience we may call it. I can see your weakness and my own, it is unbearable. I feel your pain, I am your mirror, I absorb you as you absorb me. I become you. I feel ill and afraid. Do not leave me. Please. Please my beloved. Do not leave me. You hear me cry but you do not listen. I lock my door, I must not show weakness, I must not cry out, that would destroy the power of soothing. I must not see my own need. I am filled with fear, anger creeps up upon me undetected, it becomes a part of me as well, hiding the fear. How very simple it had been. Please, please, come for me, save me. The cry of children and damsels and trapped miners in darkness. No one had ever come, no one. I imagine them laughing, how they laugh. I laugh too, it is the only way to escape one's own absurdity. One may only take matters very seriously from a detached standpoint, devoid of emotion, certainly not such emotion. For years I had strived to drive it out but that had never been my true wish. How very common place I was, to bury fear under stoicism, a fear of abandonment, how anticlimactic. How dare you! How dare you use it against me! I could not bear it, I never could and I do not believe I can yet. That dreadful silence, menacing me. The silence of abandonment. Give me any curses and torments but do not damn me with silence I would plead. Now it has set in, this smog of yours. What am I to do? How formless these matters are, indefinable things. Have you cast me away? One says absurdity, the other speaks caution. Perhaps your pedestal stands empty, you had left it for it is your love that gives you your glory. Without it you grow sickly, a demon, a devil, my murderer. My child curses you! Yours will curse back, the knowledge of it is there but suppressed, not now - not yet. This time it will be different, this is the battle of battles, so my thoughts assure me in the midst of their passions and fits. Anger and guilt, fear and pride, they tangle and thrash. I feel the sadness welling up inside me, contemplating the haunting possibility of your betrayal. Betrayal after betrayal I had suffered at unknowing hands. Who am I to hope for kindness? It would be but a miracle, to be shown such mercy. I pray I pray, anything is yours. Set me free or forever entangle me, you must be present however, I shall not follow formless things that are not of my own making. That is too dangerous. I have already lost too much. A gambler. A fool. I thrash between two walls, back and forth, back and forth, love and fear and hatred make me so tired. Still I am so restless. It may be something beautiful beyond all dreams or something putrid, like opening a casket. Answer me. Answer me. Answer me. What are you? Where are you?

But you do not come.

- S

...

Mr. Mellis watched the flames of the fireplace devour the leaf of paper as hot tears streamed down his face. He knew it was not the end, somehow a lurching feeling dwelled inside him that one day his demon would appear, many years into the future he would knock at his door.


	11. Chapter 11

"Your love is made in China, mass produced, cheap, and of questionable quality!" shouted a male voice from Dr. Lecter's waiting room. "No you go to Hell! No –I'm so done with you just shut up! Why did I even bother trying to talk with you. Look I have to go."

Upon opening the door, Hannibal beheld a slender androgynous figure with long bleached blond hair and mascara eyes irritably shutting off his phone. The patient, a transgendered woman born in a male's body by the name of Adrian, stood in the company of a balding anxious-looking man in his late forties, presumably the father.

"So sorry about that, my stupid ex was just giving me a hard time," Adrian looked over Dr. Lecter and then glanced back at her father as though to hint that he was free to go.

"I'll pick you up at seven," his father replied to the signal, eager to leave his wayward son in the care of the doctor. Ever since the teen had moved out interaction between them was tense and infrequent. Mainly due to his ex-wife's urging, Mr. Randel felt that paying for therapy would be his token of support in the crisis that was overcoming Adrian's gender identity issue. What form the resolution of this dilemma would take did not particularly concern him, as long as his ex-wife was placated.

"Okay dad, see you later," Adrian straightened the glossy pink faux-snakeskin strap of his purse and eyed Dr. Lecter with a hint of suspicion. The impression he received from the doctor's formal clothing and mannerisms was that he was conservative to say the least. Deep down Adrian feared that Hannibal was already in cooperation with his mother to try and suppress his sense of identity. That he would now be forced to endure a very expensive hour of being misunderstood and belittled by a stranger. Already he was on his defenses.

"Please, come in," Dr. Lecter led him inside, gesturing to the armchair for his patient to take a seat.

"So...like...my parents think that I should see a shrink because I've gotten to be such a freak of nature," Adrian spoke his mind with little hesitation, a hint of confrontation in his voice. "Too bad they're out of luck, I can't change you know. Not even if I wanted to. I could pretend sure but I'd rather shoot my brains out. I'm done living for my mother and if this is another gimmick to –"

"I would like to ask you a few general questions about yourself, would that be alright?" Dr. Lecter broke in.

"Um yeah—I guess," said Adrian, curious to see where this would go.

"Would you like to be referred as he, she, or a gender neutral pronoun?" asked Hannibal.

"She," the patient answered at once, pleasantly surprised by the question. It helped considerably to lower his initial animosity around the doctor.

"And do you identify yourself as –"

"A woman," Adrian anticipated the question.

"Do you find the incongruence between your body and perceived gender as a matter of pride, shame, or indifference?"

"Pride in a way, that I don't let it get to me. Once I have the money I'll make sure there is no 'incongruence'."

"Would this involve hormone replacement treatment or surgery?"

"Yes."

"Which of the two?"

"Both."

"When did you first realize that you were in the wrong body?"

"I knew since I was a kid, as long as I can remember."

"Were you ever bullied as a child?"

"Yeah, a lot."

"Would you be able to tell me more about such cases?"

"Recent cases or when I was a kid?"

"Tell me about the most significant incidents throughout your life."

"I guess when I was really little I had a lot of friends, like in kindergarten, no one really cared much about what I wore or how I acted, all the guys and girls would play together. Then in elementary school things got bad, I mostly ate lunch alone, they'd call be 'girlyboy' and thought I'd give them cooties. Then there was a time when my teacher raped me. He had a fetish for little girls with boy parts," Adrian strained not to burst out laughing.

"Is this the truth?" Hannibal hid his irritation behind his calm demeanor, sensing that his patient was not yet willing to open up and perhaps wished to make a ruse of therapy.

Adrian looked at him for a moment and with an exaggerated sigh put down her handbag. "Look, I don't really want to talk about my childhood okay? It doesn't matter – everything was fine then, I mean I wasn't any more messed up than anyone else and their parents. Sure my body's different but there's nothing wrong with me other than that. I don't see why I should be here."

Dr. Lecter decided that he needed to modify his approach.

"Did you ever visit a guidance councillor throughout your time in high school?"

"Um yeah twice."

"Did you find it helpful?"

"I guess a little, it was sorta like venting in a way. She was nice to me."

"Perhaps our session can be used in a similar way, for your needs rather than those of your parents," said Dr. Lecter, imagining her point of view and the reasons behind the retaliation.

"You mean like you'll be my councillor, and this won't all be about me being trans?"

"Yes," Dr. Lecter set down his notebook as a gesture of a transition to a more casual interaction.

"Well...okay maybe...none of the things we talk about will get back to my mother?" she asked Dr. Lecter suspiciously.

"I assure you that just as any medical professional I abide by a doctor-patient confidentiality policy," said Hannibal. "The only exceptions to this clause are instances in which a patient shares thoughts of harming oneself or others. Then their safety takes precedence."

"I see," Adrian crossed his arms and leaned back in her seat, putting her stiletto clad feet on the coffee table. At seeing a certain twitch of Dr. Lecter's lip, she swung her feet back down on the ground.

"Is there anything that has been troubling you recently?" Hannibal encouraged her.

"My ex," she replied curtly.

"What about him in particular?"

"He's a jackass."

"How so?"

"He lies to his friends that we're not dating, that he was just messing with me, like I'm a big joke."

"How did you first find out about this?"

"Through one of my friends who hangs out with his group sometimes."

"And did he confirm this information?"

"Of course not but she doesn't have any reason to lie to me."

"How has this affected you?"

"I feel really pissed off as you can see. I feel like...like he was just using me, like make he's ashamed of me. Well I'm ashamed of him! It doesn't matter though, it's better that he shows his true colours sooner rather than later, at least now I know he's a waste of time and money."

"Tell me more about your relationship with him."

"Um...well we went out for three months, we were both kinda hesitant at first but he was the one that started flirting with me after school. We were both volunteering in the afterschool drama class, that's where we met. Uh...he's got a small cock," Adrian laughed loudly, then felt embarrassed seeing Dr. Lecter's lack of any perceivable reaction.

"I-I guess it hurt being dumped like that," she said at last. "I still miss him you know. I mean it's too soon to get over him, I feel so stupid for calling him today. I must have looked desperate -"

"Were you hoping to salvage the relationship?"

"Yeah, in a way," she replied, shifting in her seat. "I just wanted to know that it wasn't true, that he still cared about me but was simply being an idiot because of what his dumb friends would think, you know?'

"It is common that one's social circle would push their behaviour in a direction different from their own morals and desires," said Dr. Lecter.

"Do you think that deep down he does love me and accept me?" Adrian asked with hope in her eyes. "That he'll change his mind?"

"I cannot say, I have not met him."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, this is your hour to ask and share anything that you deem important," Hannibal replied.

"Okay well this is something that's been bothering me a lot, I guess in terms of the future and about Eric – Eric's my boyfriend –I mean ex," she began. "I mean, I don't hate my body as much as I used to, with clothes and makeup I can sort of change it enough to feel like myself. B-but the problem is that when I meet people I eventually have to tell them...you know, and then it's like I have to tell them that I killed five people or something, like there's a terrible secret I had been hiding from them. Then there's always that feeling that they'll dump me then and there and that our years of friendship don't matter anymore."

"Has this happened to you in the past?" asked Dr. Lecter.

"You mean being ditched?" she looked up. "Yeah, my best friend in second year...before she found out we would talk every day then it's like she didn't even know me."

"That must have been painful."

"No, I don't care anymore really," she insisted, deep down knowing that this was not entirely true. "I just want to be happy and live my life, I can't keep caring about what these stupid people think right?"

"At the same time does being ostracized by society not have an impact on your ability to find happiness? Humans are social creatures after all," Hannibal replied.

"I know, but there isn't much I can do about them."

"Do you feel that your identity takes precedence over the opportunity for acceptance? In other words, does the expression of your perceived gender hold greater value than being welcomed by your peers?"

"I don't want to be liked as a guy, I would feel like I would have to follow all those stupid stereotypes," she brushed her hair from her eyes with her manicured fingers.

"You would not necessarily have to conform to the extreme of traditional gender roles, modern society is more accepting than you may perceive," said Dr. Lecter.

"Not from what I've seen," she retorted.

"Perhaps as you grow older you will find that most adults are more subdued in self-expression than youth are, femininity and masculinity fade into the background."

"You mean everyone becomes like a robot at a stupid desk job where they have to keep their mouth shut and do what they're told."

"Not necessarily, but in some cases yes, certain social norms are established. There can be some comfort in knowing one's predefined role in a collective."

"I don't care about being a sheep."

"What are the societal norms which you deem worthy of rebelling against at the expense of the emotional connection that you give up with others? Let us say you desire a partner who is honorable, kind, affectionate, wealthy, and intelligent. Statistically speaking your chances of finding such a partner would be significantly limited if you add the hindrance that he must also be accepting of you as being transgendered."

"I thought about that, but no. No matter how great he or she is it would still feel wrong if I had to be a guy for them."

"Is it a matter of you 'having to be a guy for them' or that you feel that you ought to be."

"Um...I guess I feel that I have to."

"Do you see the significance? It is not necessary to announce your identity just as most males and females feel little need to clarify their gender identity. Nor are certain modes of dress a prerequisite, the body may be viewed simply as a vessel for the mind."

"I sort of get that," she nodded reluctantly. "But still..."

"What I hoped to share with you is that there is no need to overcompensate for the incongruence between your sex and your gender by presenting yourself as being at the extreme of the spectrum of femininity. Very few woman truly define themselves as such."

"Well sometimes it's fun to dress up and wear makeup, I like it, it's not just to overcompensate."

"Are you certain of this?"

"Well...I guess I hadn't really thought about it, it seems kinda sad that I still haven't been true to myself even when I was trying my best to be."

"Perhaps you had been trying too much, you had pushed yourself further than was necessary to become an ideal that was not entirely of your own creation. Where do you think your conception of 'woman' originates?"

"I see what you're getting at, it's sort of like all that stuff on TV and magazines has been getting to me but no one really looks like that. Most women don't look like that. I-I guess I just wanted to be something close to perfect, that's what beauty was. Like I know beauty doesn't have to be like being anorexic but still putting effort into it seemed a part of it. As in taking care of oneself, the makeup, the clothes, things like that. Fashion."

"Beauty can be artless as well."

"But I do see beauty to be like an art," she insisted.

"By artless I mean without significant modification from its natural form."

"You mean without makeup and designer clothes?"

"Yes."

"I guess, but how would that help me? Why does that even matter? Other than the money I'd save," she laughed awkwardly.

Hannibal smiled in reassurance, leaning back in his armchair.

"I hoped to have you consider the possibility that there is the option of not making a poignant declaration of your gender and sexuality but at the same time remaining true to yourself. This would likely provide you with more opportunities for friendship among your peers."

"So not being so 'in your face' feminine so more people would accept me? So I blend in more...and they can sorta see me as a guy or a girl or neither if they want but I would still know that I'm a girl? It's like it's what's on the inside that counts?" she smiled a little, the idea was a bit cheesy to her at first but something about it rung true.

"Yes," said Hannibal.

"Maybe...at least until I can get surgery and blend in better," she considered the idea, it would make her life a lot easier in a way but she still worried that it would leave her unhappy, but for different reasons than before. Deep down she needed the comfort of looking into the mirror and seeing glimpses of what could be, filling in the mistakes with her imagination. Her Adam's apple and hints of stubble should definitely be gone. But it would be nice not having to worry about the looks she got on the bus or on her way to school, she could just feel normal for a change without having to fake a role. She knew she could get people to like her, easily, if only it wasn't for her body. Adrian could imagine a lot of girls going through something similar, feeling that their body was what was stopping them from being popular, well-liked, having lots of friends...but that wasn't really true, just like how people think winning the lottery will make them happy. Things would just go back to the way they used to, she read about that, how a lot of those families that became millionaires ended up where they started. People would get used to anything. It's just about reframing one's perspective, she thought. Adrian was surprised to find how quickly the hour went by.

...

By the end of the appointment Hannibal was left feeling rather drained of empathy, he had always found it more difficult to sympathize with the plights of young people. There was so much of the contrived in their relations, so many unnecessary barriers resulting primarily from fear and insecurity. He could recall fragments of his own youth, Hannibal had found himself a form of escapism at an early age. When he was young it took the form of stories and imagination, as he grew older it was with the philosophers and scholars of old. They existed in the welcoming sphere of the mind, they spoke eagerly to him in poetry and prose. He would flit from one intellectual to another, trying to find some form of enlightenment. Hannibal toyed with religion and several interpretations of morality yet it never escaped him how impossible it truly was to abide by any fixed belief system. They seemed to be made for an abstract being, these men of greatness hoped to piece a creature together out of parts they salvaged from humanity, yet still the being that would appear before them would never be quite human. It was the idea of a human remote from the thing itself. It was much like having to pay attention to a melody of music throughout one's life, either it would get set aside while more pressing matters were analyzed or it would have a constant presence in the background that would in time grow mute and meaningless in its eternal repetition. The pursuit of virtue could only excite him through novelty, thus leading him to embark on a multitude of spiritual quests that would each meet its abrupt end. The most common barrier for Hannibal was that the world in which he had been cast in was too banal to provide opportunities for greatness, there were few grave matters of good and evil or right and wrong, the day to day was filled by triviality in the pursuit of sustaining one's life of general mediocrity. The mediocre would at times gawk at each other and that was their key driver, though it had several forms of distorted greed. Any deed would be made a mockery of by the gawking of the masses, or worse yet would be ineffectual and unnoticed. In the absence of an objective meaning, the assurance of a transcendental ultimate, the only solace to be found was in things of beauty. The arts, the sciences, and the plight of humanity. His position as a psychiatrist allowed him to follow their struggles with a semblance of compassion, constantly feeding his curiosity and teaching him more of their nature.

Like the Greek myth of Sisyphus, Hannibal believed each man to be trapped in his own struggles which are the be all and end all, if one does not assign himself a higher purpose. A subjective justification for his own existence. Sisyphus, king of Ephyra, was punished by Zeus for chronic deceitfulness, henceforth his life consisted of rolling an immense boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down, repeating this action for all eternity. Much in the same way the human race pushes its boulder for eternity, passing on the burden from generation to generation. And so the life of endless toil continues, which would be a deplorable thing if one has not learned to enjoy it. In such a way Zeus blessed Sisyphus, by compelling and giving the man an inclination for his task, needing no justification or encouragement.


	12. Chapter 12

Will Graham sat before Hannibal, hunched over in his chair and his face in his hands, Dr. Lecter's scrutinizing gaze upon him. He had come to him in his hour of need, as was the man's custom. What he needed was not certain, it was simply the vague notion that Hannibal may lead him out of a forest of delusion and fear, there was something in his expression that seemed to reassure him. It was more than understanding, more than compassion, but a particular sort of apathy. Human pains and pleasures did not touch him. It were as though the doctor's face never flinched, he never shivered, he was like a statue that stood at a distance from the struggles of man. It simply watched.

Will knew that this was a mirage of his own making, nothing more than a story he had weaved, a character he had cast in Hannibal's body. Yet the man did not dash the illusion, allowing him to walk deeper and deeper into the ominous dreamscape. He saw beauty there, in the darkness. He shook his head, shaking out the thoughts and the words. Will pulled at the tangles of greasy dark hair.

"I don't know what to do," Will muttered under his breath."I don't know what's happening to me."

"Start with that which is known, what are the certainties?" said Hannibal to the almost inaudible call, his voice startling his so-called companion.

Will did not know what he had wanted, he had not expected a reply. The words were like a howl, more emotion than sense. He looked up at Hannibal with clouded eyes, it had been long since he had been able to sleep soundly.

Hannibal felt that there was something filthy about him. Almost dead, dying.

"I-I cannot see in certainties," said Will, staring at the man across from him warily.

"That may be wise, yet it leaves one vulnerable," Hannibal answered, he wished to reach out and touch the figure in front of him. There was something about him that made him feel that Will would crumble into dust, very soon and irreversibly. Will Graham was how he imagine man symbolically, a being of pure empathy, emotion, and delusion, yet still capable of rational thought, of forming connections, of searching through vast amounts of information for small grains that would lead him into dark places. It filled him with guilt and ecstasy to walk in front of him, always in the midst of shadow, yet very close by. So often Will could almost touch him with his fingertips yet he would slip away, there was always a piece of himself in the presentation of the evidence. The others would strain to look at it with cold and impassive eyes, eyes still clouded with horror and disgust. Yet Will could feel more deeply, he understood with beautiful clarity. The clarity madmen feel.

Will was his child and his creation, to nurture with ideas and intricate poisons, but he could never come too close. Too often he had been tempted but what awful things would come of the union of their two minds? he imagined. The fear of Will's disgust was greater than the possibilities of the other's acceptance. In the realm of reality he could not see a place for one such as Will Graham nor himself, not a predefined place, not one of comfort nor safety. He was so close to grasping it but it was not possible, Hannibal reassured himself of this in a sign of childishness, it was jealousy at its worst. To imagine one's favourite toy maimed and crippled so no other may touch it. He could not allow himself to reach out to Will, not with emotion, only by placing him in a labyrinth and watching him run could he allow a connection between himself and the other being.

Will was threatening in his own way, he had a certain immunity that Hannibal could not overlook, he was capable of a state of mind that would forever be out of reach to Dr. Lecter. This was the essence of his desirability.

"I should go," spoke Will, rising from his seat, "I'm sorry for disturbing you." He paused, there was something strange about the other, a certain glint in his eye that betrayed a change. He appeared living, breathing, conscious.

"My door is always open to you," Hannibal assured him, his words weighing heavily on him. He looked to the window, night had fallen and swept the city into darkness. He imagined Will walking alone down lamp-lit streets, through forests, through dirt and sand and blood.


	13. Chapter 13

"Dr. Lecter?" Franklin Froideveaux picked up the phone, his voice wavering. He could see the other man's name displayed on the screen like a symbol of peculiar energy that caused his stomach to churn. His life provided few surprises. It evoked a promise of something to come, a fracture in the monotony, a witness to his existence. For years he had fostered such a disposition, to live only through a witness, all else was but rehearsal. Like a man on an island, he felt sharply the absence of a connection with others, wondering if his thoughts and actions had consequence if no one knew of them.

"I am calling to remind you of your appointment," Dr. Lecter's voice filtered into his ear. He could not place the tone of it, yet given how rare it was for the doctor to call, Franklin could not help but feel a sense of foreboding. His thoughts instantly flitted to the sketchbook he had pilfered from their last session together. The voice on the line echoed his fears.

"Please do not forget to bring the item which you have borrowed from me, I believe it is something we must discuss together," said Hannibal without resentment but rather with a semblance of condolence.

Franklin swallowed hard, hardly able to breathe as he tried to imagine their next appointment. The image of himself which he had so meticulously worked on, however ineffectually, had been doomed to ruin. A voice at the back of his mind had warned him of the possible consequences yet a certain desire within him had pushed him to do the unthinkable. Deep down there was the awareness that his efforts had done little to bring him closer to Dr. Lecter, in fact the opposite was the more likely outcome. He could sense the other's repulsion, however subdued the doctor's nature was. Franklin had not seen him with other patients and the strained manner with which the doctor spoke to him made him wonder if he held a distinct dislike for him. Another thought within him countered with the presumption that it was merely his neurosis speaking, that the doctor saw him as one among many, a case study unworthy of any personal sentiment. No, not unworthy but – but unnecessary, their relationship was strictly professional. Strictly professional. How he hated it, professionalism be damned, it made him wonder if he was truly getting what he wanted from Dr. Lecter, what he needed. Those empty metallic words that meant nothing to him, he was just taking his money, for nothing! For nothing! Franklin took a deep breath, his contradictory thoughts and emotions overwhelming him. He felt like a child, awkward and absurd, a victim of unknown forces.

"Y-yes Dr. Lecter," was all that he managed to say.

"Thank you, I look forward to seeing you."

Franklin Froideveaux held the phone for a while longer, though there was no longer anyone on the other line. He turned over the words in his mind, the beautiful words. I look forward to seeing you. You. You. I look forward to seeing you. He thought of Dr. Lecter's distinct accent. His fine scent of cologne, his defined cheekbones, the tasteful elegance of his clothing. In that moment all that he ever needed for his emotional state to become complacent was to reach out to him, to his somber angel. Franklin wished to infuse him with feelings, to kiss his feet and compel him into stark reality. He could not wait, a certain madness possessed him in that moment, it had been accumulating for days, he had sensed it coming. Looming over him was the need for diligent action, no longer could he wait patiently behind doors. Time would not wait for him, he could feel the object of his desires slipping away. It urged him onward against all reason. Dr. Lecter would walk away from his pedestal and leave him in a fit of emotional epilepsy, he would not allow that, he could not.

There were still two hours until his appointment with the doctor but he could not wait. Franklin took the sketchbook from its place on his nightstand and slipped it into his bag before searching frantically for his car keys. There was an unrivaled liberation in acting on an impulse, a newly discovered ability within himself, it was not a whim but a need, Franklin assured his conscience. He wished to make an impression on the other, he wanted nothing more that to be seen, noticed, and thought of. He would no longer allow Dr. Lecter to ignore him. That would be his purpose, the be all and end all.

...

As Franklin drove down the highway a pristine exhilaration spread over him, the intensity of which numbed him to all other thoughts and emotions. He smiled with a peculiar clarity, a surreal peacefulness which he had sought for decades. His purpose was clear to him, his goal within sight, within reach. Dr. Lecter's layers were peeling away in Franklin's mind, skin after skin until at the core lay a shriveled creature with flitting eyes of fear and need much like his own. No, he was not a madman, he saw him clearly now, he saw all of them clearly. It was a breaking point, a voice inside of him whispered, he would rue the day, it was not too late to go back. Call in sick. Stop the car. Stop the car.

"No," Franklin muttered under his breath, turning on the radio.

His thoughts were tuned out by more metallic voices, the news station talked of the same thing it had been talking about for weeks on end. The organ snatcher, mutilator, psychopath, sociopath, serial killer. These things did not mean anything to Franklin. They seemed otherworldly and nameless. What would it feel like? It was the things of movies while the world was filled with the dull and the commonplace. It was only himself and Dr. Lecter who stood outside of it.

Did the Chesapeake Ripper drink his coffee, commute to work, sit in his cubicle, and come home to watch the late night shows in a dingy apartment? Did he sit on a street corner in his rags and whisky breath with red swollen eyes? Did he have two kids, a dog, a little house in the suburbs with IKEA furniture?

Franklin changed the station, the muttering voices spoiling his clarity. They were replaced by a repetitive pounding pattern of music and indiscernible lyrics which blasted overpoweringly from the speakers. He turned the volume louder still. It was the madness of youth, of freedom, of sex. Those things did not happen in reality either, the whisper, told him, youth are never free, that is why they pray and shout to carelessness. One does not praise and desire what is already theirs with quite so much vigor, one does not praise the commonplace. Carelessness and freedom, were they interchangeable?

Franklin arrived at Dr. Lecter's office. It looked and felt different this time, he felt as though he were on fire, that inside was more fire still. He clutched the sketchbook to his stomach as though to keep it in place. Franklin felt afraid, the numbness crumbling at the critical point. He could not see the object of his fears, it was not Dr. Lecter, it was not himself, it was not the consequences. The things that may come, the things that could be frightened him, the beautiful wonderful things that he would butcher with his deficiencies. His illusion would fall apart in small poisonous shards, he knew that it was inevitable yet a mad desire urged him onward. He had come this far.

Franklin Froideveaux rang the doorbell, holding his breath, grinding his teeth, his toes curled in his well-worn loafers, beads of sweat rolled down his back, his nails dug into the cover of the leather sketchbook. He saw the doorknob turn, it was obsession.


	14. Chapter 14

The door opened to reveal the familiar figure of Dr. Lecter. Franklin's eyes swam over it, the man was dressed in a gray suit with blue pinstripes and a ochre coloured tie. Dark brown eyes looked out at him with an air of expectation, waiting for him to speak. His appearance conveyed an immaculate being to his admirer. Franklin felt at once frightened and relieved, both emotions choking him while his mouth gaped like a floundered fish.

"Mr. Froideveaux, I had not expected you to arrive this soon," Hannibal spoke first, sensing that an explanation was not forthcoming from the overwhelmed patient.

Meanwhile Franklin strained to gather his thoughts, he felt as though he had sleepwalked to Dr. Lecter's office without any knowledge of what he ought to do next with his newfound assertion. It became clear to him that his motivation had been emotional rather than any semblance of a defined course of action. He felt as though his mind and body and betrayed him by placing him in such an unusual position, one of confusion and embarrassment rather than empowerment.

"I-I'm sorry," was all that he could muster, his eyes fixated on Dr. Lecter, pleading to him for some sort of sign of hope.

"Please, come in," Hannibal opened the door wider and stepped aside to offer Franklin a path through the narrow hallway up the staircase. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them as the portly middle-aged man heaved himself up the steps with great care as not to make a sound. He did not know why this was necessary but the tension he felt obliged him to be as inconspicuous as his wayward mannerisms would allow, given how far he had pushed his welcome thus far. Franklin was well aware that Dr. Lecter was not partial to such unexpected visits.

As he climbed higher, from his vantage point he was able to see the two plush armchairs facing one another, the coffee table, the red and white curtains drawn over several looming windows, the long shadows cast by the rows of bookcases, and the oriental paintings which hung on the wall. Franklin felt a pang of anguish at the sight of these familiar items, reminders of the cold ambiance he had grown used to in the company of Dr. Lecter, he felt tears welling up in his eyes and fought desperately to suppress them.

Hannibal paused as he heard the sound of sniffling behind him, no sooner did he turn around that the sniffling turned to sobbing. The figure of Franklin Froideveaux was hunched over on his staircase, his face in his hands, red and swollen with tears. He had allowed the sketchbook to slide down the steps, as though it had fallen from grace during the man's fit of despair.

Noticing the doctor's eyes upon him, Franklin forced himself to keep walking in staggering steps, urged onward by a stirring of shame and an intense desire for condolence, Hannibal placed his hand on the man's shoulder, causing the wails to intensify as Franklin fell to his knees and clung to the doctor's legs, his tears soaking into the fabric.

"I'm sorry," Franklin cried, "I – I didn't mean to – to cause all this – I just – I didn't know what I was doing."

Almost without his own notice, the broken man rose to his feet and hugged Hannibal, burying his face in the other's chest, no longer caring if his running nose and salty tears would spoil the other's clothing. In its own way it felt good to touch him and smear him with pitiful humanity. Sweat, blood, and tears, that's what everyone else is, Franklin thought, underneath it all. He tried to coax himself out of a sense of guilt for having let himself get so far in imposing himself on Dr. Lecter. Yet he needed him too badly for social decencies and discretion to mean anything.

He felt Dr. Lecter's slender hands curl around him in a faint embrace, an unexpected gesture of pity and perhaps compassion. Franklin dared not look up at him, not wishing for him to retract his gesture of precious kindness, allowing it to sink as he held on more tightly still. The sobs climaxed from feelings of self-pity before becoming irregular and considerably less forceful. Meanwhile Hannibal's heart raced at the uncharacteristic offering of human contact, from a creature as sniveling and physically repulsive as Franklin Froideveaux. It evoked within him memories of Will Graham, the desperate state of need without direction which seemed to constantly resonate from the agent. He reveled in his ability to draw the vulnerable towards him yet at the same time remain detached.

There was the unrelenting awareness that a barrier stood between himself and Will Graham that could never be crossed. Hannibal looked back on such instances with some remorse, at present considering them as missed opportunities to dwell deeper. He gazed down at the curly mop of black hair belonging to a stout shivering body pressed against his own. Dr. Lecter found himself stroking the other's back as though to soothe him, leaning his chin on Franklin's shoulder and allowing himself to close his eyes for a moment. He could hardly deny to himself that he felt a pleasure well up inside of him from the warmth he received, from the unthreatening adoration with which the feeble being showered him. There was a tempting aura of safety there, he mused.

The two men stood in the staircase for what felt like a long time until Franklin worked up the courage to meet the other's gaze, raising his head and stepping back for a moment to take in the image before him. He could see that something in Hannibal's face had softened, his eyes appeared more sentient and benign, his lips parted slightly, the colour of his skin appeared almost flushed. The transformation in Franklin was more starkly obvious in his ruddy face and swollen eyes, the unruly hair and wrinkled sweater, the sleeves covered smears from wiping away his tears and nose upon them many times. Never had he felt so happy and so disgraced.

"I wanted to do this for so many years, do you know that?" spoke Franklin, his voice having gone soft. "I mean, not like this exactly, but to hold you, just to touch you. To know you're human, that I can reach out to you in some way. I don't really have anyone else, you're the person I imagine I'm talking to every night when I can't fall asleep, every day when my mind drifts off at work, when I'm sitting on the subway...you're always there, but it's not really you, I mean – I didn't think it was you. The you I used to know was always on the other side, when we'd sit in your office there was always something between us but now it's gone. Do you feel it? Tell me you feel it...or...or maybe you shouldn't answer that. I don't want things to change back or make it any more uncomfortable for you. I can go if you want me to, I understand if you—"

Hannibal heard fragments of the other's speech, the words coming to him in poignant excerpts that reminded him of Will. These were the words he would place with choked sobs in Will's mouth. Pathetic recollections and memories of his own making. He could almost see the other's figure before him. A grotesque hallucination in Dr. Lecter's taste. He knew that there was something inherently dangerous and vile in such illusions, he knew they were warping him from the inside and making him wretched the longer he held on to them. Day after day he would follow in the man's shadow, lingering on his words and accompanying him on sinister expeditions inside the minds of madmen. He could only imagine the other's experiences, Hannibal could see them in the way one reads a description in a newspaper clipping of an outbreak of disease, Will experienced the disease itself, in all its vigor. The only cure for himself was to concentrate on his own monstrosity and that of the man which captivated him, tempting him with unlikely possibilities for connection. His presence alone was enough to entice buried potential for sentiment. Dr. Lecter felt as though any being would suffice, as long as it may mirror his desire, if it were willing to do this for as long as was necessary.

To indulge in Franklin as an embodiment of flesh and emotion would be to give in to weakness, to choose something unworthy of refined tastes. Yet the endearing devotion and comfort that was offered was too benign to refuse in principle alone. He saw a certain beauty in submission to the human impulse for companionship, a simplicity and purity that he had long denied himself.

.


	15. Chapter 15

Franklin studied the shifting expression upon Dr. Lecter's face and was left with the oppressive feeling that Hannibal always gave him, it was an odd mixture of gratitude and awe, admiration and fear, consent and inward hostility. Dr. Lecter's eyes appeared faintly sad with flashes of derision as he turned away and walked over to the armchair, Franklin followed in his steps, taking his own place across from the doctor. Time passed in silence as the two men considered what to make of the situation, both feeling out of their element, having been moved by one another out of their pre-existing roles. There was a gravity about the unusual scenario which had taken place in Dr. Lecter's office, leaving both doctor and patient with an awareness that they had given too much of themselves.

"Do I disgust you?" spoke Franklin to the motionless figure before him, his voice came out hoarse and dry from his outburst of hysterics,

"No, but you do not interest me," Hannibal replied without venom.

"In what way?"

"In any way."

"B-but you held me, there was something there, I could feel it," Franklin insisted, keeping his voice calm. "Your hands –"

"It was a curiosity for an idea rather than an individual," Hannibal's words echoed in his own mind, he spoke them more for his own sake than for the man across from him.

"I don't understand," Franklin furrowed his brow, it was not the answer he wanted. His dashed desires were beginning to fester into contempt, the doctor seemed aloof to him, arrogant even. He wished to pick out his faults as Dr. Lecter did for his patients.

"You don't want me and that's fine, I get it," for Franklin the impact of his own words was like daggers, he was not yet ready to submit to a rejection of his affections. "But who do you have, who is there that wants you? There's no ring on your hands, no photographs in your office, no just your warped drawings. I looked through your book, I stole it you know? It was beautiful I must say but it reeked of a sad, confused, demented little man. You're all alone aren't you? You're going crazy!" his eyes budged slightly as he spat out the words, a peculiar laughter springing from his throat. The cackling cry went on until in blended with an encore of tears, causing Franklin to bury his face in his hands. He no longer felt Dr. Lecter's presence, the room seemed to drift away while he nursed his sorrow further still.

Hannibal looked away in disgust though his eyes would wander to the odious form in morbid curiosity. Never could he imagine his own mind and body in such a state, to him it was the utmost horror to lose oneself so fully, to become so depraved. Yet he had to question himself as to why, there was more than a grain of truth in Franklin's words and a pain within him that was likely greater than his patient's. A profound and persistent ache of a missing fragment.

"Yes Franklin, I am indeed alone," said Hannibal, causing the man to momentarily suspend his muffled blubbering and look up in surprise. Franklin did not know what he had expected when he vented his frustration but he gravitated towards any intimate revelation that was offered to him. It made him think for a moment as to why Dr. Lecter had opened himself to him in such a way and it did not take him long to realize that it may well be the all-encompassing worthlessness he represented in the other's eyes rather than a great esteem that allowed for trust. He could do nothing with the information, his opinion meant nothing to Hannibal, it was like crying out in darkness. He understood.

"I am alone just as you are, as most humans are," Dr. Lecter explained. "I have met very few who do not feel a disconnection in some form from their environment and their community, who have formed a profound bond with another being. Most partnerships are created of convenience and subconscious ulterior motives, base desires, a myriad of dull fears and needs for affirmation. The pure passions which each imagines rarely exist in reality, with a permanence that one can keep fed, it would require too simplified a form for humans to fall into place in such a harmonious way. Life is too banal to feed such an existence. Man is both God and Devil if he is anything more than animal."

Franklin listened intently, he felt a mixture of joy and alarm as each word went through him. He felt dim and dull, he did not know if he understand fully what Dr. Lecter was expressing yet it resonated within him as both a warning and a serenade, like a soliloquy beckoning him. It was too soon to let go. The words meant nothing to him but a howl much like his own.

"Then be my God and my Devil," Franklin near pleaded.

"I would grow dull and wither away sooner than you think if I did so," Hannibal replied.

"No! I would take care of you, I would love you when you're sickly or old, I don't care!" Franklin's mind burst with desperation, overwhelmed by the thought that the object of his desires was within reach. The ambiguity of the other's response fueled his hopes and passions.

"You do not believe that you understand. In a sense that is precisely the point, you do not care and you do not see," said Dr. Lecter with a faint note of exasperation in his voice. He had the task of untangling himself from Franklin in the most civil manner. In his own way he still wish the man to live onward as a token and a monument to the piteous wiles of human nature.

Franklin sat mutely for a moment, unable to muster a retort. Instead, he placed his hands on Hannibal's cheeks and pressed his lips to the other's, in praise of the element of romantic spontaneity.

Dr. Lecter was taken aback by the bold gesture, feeling a mild tingling of repulsion as though he had been licked by a dog, a senseless creature that did not know better in expressing its affection. The whole scenario took on the shape of a ruse, a mockery of sentiments. He felt as though there was no choice but to laugh along or else play the part of the victim or the fool. A curiosity stirred inside of him. Hannibal knew that it was an unnatural reaction to the advances of an undesirable suitor yet he went on to entertain this curiosity.

He leaned into the kiss, slipping his tongue into the other's mouth and pinning him on the coffee table with the weight of his body. Franklin turned red as can be, his mouth gaping in its typical fish-like manner from shock, drawing deep breaths while speaking something inaudible. Hannibal continued with what he imagined was the semblance of passionate affection as the two of them ended up on the floor of his office. He could feel Franklin entangle his legs and rut against him like a dog in heat, something which he found both comical and offensive. At the same time, Dr. Lecter felt that there was a liberating element in this mockery of love, how very grotesque and vulgar a parody he could create. He could sense his own body become aroused by the movements and groping touches of the other though he could imagine no attraction towards his partner. How mechanical it all seemed, yet foreign and intriguing. He was aware of his own inexperience, as though he had been dropped in the midst of a tribal ritual unrecognized, with the ability to watch a primitive scene unfold with detached curiosity. His own sexuality was a dubious realm of genderless forms, the flesh was either healthy or unhealthy, the mind was only fascinating or dull, attraction and arousal stemmed from the spirit. He knew that his own mind was prone to obsession. Franklin was unhealthy flesh and dull mind, he did not tempt him and so there was no threat in submission.

Meanwhile Franklin's lustful attempts to strip Hannibal of his clothing were to no avail, given the proximity of their bodies and Dr. Lecter's unresponsiveness, save for mirroring a few of Franklin's actions and the initial encouragement. Hannibal watched the outline of the other man's body move in a rhythm against his own, causing slight bruises due to the vigor of the movements and the heavy-set man's weight upon him. He soon began to feel a recognizable sensation of pleasure build up significantly and then quickly subside, though Franklin's movements continued, not surprisingly he found them more uncomfortable and bothersome after the point. Following an interval of ten or so minutes the plump creature climbed off of him and lay down beside him, wheezed after his climax. Hannibal remained relatively motionless on his back, examining Franklin's heaving form, his own rumpled suit and the stain the other left on his thigh. Meanwhile the other man stared up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze.

A certain emptiness fell upon Franklin, accompanied by sadness and shame. He could not clearly think upon what had occurred. It had been intimacy yet it had not been intimate, it was like holding a beautiful doll that now looked at him with glass eyes. It was a perverse masturbation. It felt eerie to him, the way Hannibal looked at him, it was not with disgust or affection, he could not place it. It seemed as though a chill had swept the room.

Hannibal reached out and took Franklin's hand, his eyes following Franklin's to gaze up at the white ceiling.


	16. Chapter 16

Froideveaux's body grew tense as the other man's fingers curled around his own, feeling that there was something ambiguously threatening in the gesture. Dr. Lecter remained an enigma to him and the events that had passed between them lingered in his memory much like the remnants of a dream, bittersweet and surreal. He felt as though he had not been fully conscious for an indeterminable interval of time as the sequence that accumulated into the fulfillment of his desires was not apparent to him. Pieces of fantasy had merged with reality to create something unearthly and inhuman. His mind did not narrate such feelings to him, it did not lay them out critically, yet they were present in the form of emotion, as penetrating in children as they are in adults if one could see them in their true complexity. Dr. Lecter's eyes followed the contour of Franklin's face, noticing a perpetual expression of agitation staring back at him. The fulfillment of his will had not liberated him but instead entangled him further in fear and confusion. He did not feel empowered by his act of rebellion but rather more enchained to the scrutiny of Hannibal, as though he had been caught in a treacherous act and awaited punishment. The punishment that loomed over him was hidden from him, thus growing all the more potent and frightful.

"H-how was it?" Franklin felt as though he had to speak, the silence oppressing him. He knew that the question was almost banal yet he desperately wished to hear the doctor's voice. He imagined it would carry some clue as to his sentiments. "Did you like it? I mean – it's strange how things happened so quickly, it was all in the spur of the moment wasn't it?" he laughed heartily, encouraged by his nervousness. He could feel his hands growing sweaty.

"Yes, you are exploring the other side of your neuroticism. Instead of being hypercritical of you every action, you have numbed reason and allowed impulse to lead you," said Hannibal.

"It still comes back though, afterwards."

"Inevitably."

"You still haven't answered me fully, did you enjoy it? Our little office romp?" Franklin attempted to sound nonchalant. "This might be a tad too blunt but hey why not – do you enjoy sex in general? Have you ever had sex? With men or with women? It's funny but I know almost nothing about you."

"As it ought to be."

"Why did you reach out to hold my hand?"

"I was interested to see the effect it would have on you."

"Is that what this was then, curiosity?"

"I believe you were aware of it."

"I was partially but – it still doesn't make it any less disheartening to hear. I mean, I like you Dr. Lecter as more than just – I don't even know what I am to you."

"You are my patient."

"Anything more than that?"

"No, but perhaps you shall find my methods unorthodox."

Franklin's jaw quivered as he let the words sink in. "You know I could sue you for this, I-I don't even know what this is! It's like some sort of game to you isn't it? But hey, now you must have an excellent understanding of Franklin Froideveaux's most intimate fantasies. In a twisted way I get it but I don't want to go there. Not at all."

"I don't believe you will attempt it."

"Why, because I love you? Yeah you're right!" Franklin felt more than a little upset by how things had played out, he no longer knew what to make of it.

"What signifies love to you?" asked Hannibal.

"That you think about the person night and day, that every waking moment you are just waiting to be with them, everything reminds you of them, it's hard to look them in the eyes, you admire and adore everything about them, you'd do anything they ask, you'd even die for them. That's what love is."

"It is the love of youth."

Franklin mulled over those words for a moment, trying to unravel whether it was a comment of praise or derision, or neither.

"Well what do you think love is? Have you ever loved someone?" he asked Dr. Lecter.

"Do you hope for a personal or universal interpretation?"

"A personal one," Franklin decided.

"The only form of love I have experienced is one that is offered from afar. I have yet to find any examples where engaging with one's idol does not mar them," Hannibal told him.

"Well I'm sure there are many happy couples who grow old together and still care for each other deeply. I mean sure most people end up divorced or emotionally broken or just plain dissatisfied but it doesn't always have to end like that."

"Caring and being content are trivial."

"Geeze what is it that you're looking for then?"

"The object of my love is a representation of an unattainable ideal, they do not exist in realty but symbolize an idea, a compilation of ideas that must remain immortal and unchanging. What I want is the embodiment of an essence, an absolute of fear, altruism, hatred, honesty, lust, jealousy - I will accept a multitude of beautiful anomalies in human nature. I have a taste for archetypes that rarely appear in reality as a prefect form. I believe such a being could offer me comfort and understanding."

"It sounds like some sort of freak of nature but even then why must it be immortal, can't you just enjoy them while you can and be happy and just treasure those small moments of happiness, no matter how trifling they are?"

"Because to have something beautiful and then lose it is more painful than never to have possessed it."

"But maybe the small moments of joy you have with them bring you so much happiness that it makes the pain worth it."

"Disillusionment is most often the case."

"Most often but not always."

"I cannot say that with certainty, the odds are against it in any case and I do not risk bringing harm upon myself unnecessarily."

"You cannot close yourself up from the world. You seem like a typical case of a guy who is afraid of getting hurt."

"I am."

"Have you ever been rejected?"

"I rarely desire another so strongly as to peruse them romantically."

"There must have been someone – see you've gotten all quiet. C'mon. I – I know, is it that Greek boy from your sketches, who was he?"

"A patient of mine. He committed suicide three years ago."

"Oh...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry...I mean...did you—were you interested in him romantically?"

"No but I have an appreciation for classical beauty."

"I can see that, well then...what about the other portrait you kept drawing, of that sort of raggedy looking sort of scruffy fellow, what about him, what attracts you to him? I mean I could see him being good-looking with maybe a haircut or something. I don't know..."

"Will Graham has a unique ability for empathy that draws me to him. He is like a host to all the anomalies in the spectrum of human nature, including my own. He can become anything I desire, he can become all of my desires."

"Would you say you love him then?" Franklin waited in a tense silence before Hannibal made his reply

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

"In a sense I believe that he does, but the awareness is muddled by other revelations which are more difficult to swallow. Consciously he has placed a barrier between us, subconsciously he is also drawn to me when he is in need of guidance."

"You are his God and Devil in a way," Franklin used the phrase, enjoying the sound of it.

"Yes."

"Why don't you just tell him you love him. Why not just do it and be certain of it all?"

"Because I will soon be forced to do irreparable harm to him out of self-preservation. Any form of love that I may offer him would be a distortion of our sentiments."

"You do not have to hurt him."

"I already have and I must continue. When I treat one wound I must mutilate another."

"Why? Do you feel remorse at least?" Franklin knew it was best not to press him for details, but at least in vague terms he hoped to gain a greater understanding of Dr. Lecter, imagining that there was a something he could use to draw Hannibal closer to himself. Another part of him felt a certain fear growing inside of him towards Dr. Lecter's cold and abstracted emotions, suppressing his desires for the other.

"No, in the process I have brought him closer to me, as close as is allowable. I cannot undo what I have done and so I continue with my design."

"Even then, why can't you just tell him that you love him and need him? Who knows, he might even forgive you," Franklin insisted.

"It would be disgraceful to offer something decayed to one's beloved. I have dishonored him and myself to be certain of what he is."

"To know for certain that you love him you mean? Franklin found the words to be touching in their own way, his gaze softening slightly.

"Yes," Hannibal replied.

"I-I'm sorry for what happened today," he knew the words were a lie but they needed to be said. "I didn't know you were...attached to someone else. When we made love, in our own way, it was –"

"It was irrelevant."

"It hurts me to hear that."

"I know."

"But that is irrelevant too," said Franklin, surprised that the words did not make him feel anger. Instead he felt a degree of pity for the man. Deep down he had a gut feeling that whatever Dr. Lecter was involved in would end very badly and that he had to get away from it all. A stupid irrational part of him would not allow him to however, he could not tell if it was simply physical attraction or something more but he still desired Hannibal, knowing what he knew. He would not let go.

"Yes," said Hannibal.

...

Franklin drew him into his arms, stroking his soft hair. He breathed in his smell and relished his warmth. He felt at peace, a contentment he longed to experience.

...

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes, slipping his arms around Franklin as they lay on the floor entangled. He listened to the rain, soothed by it. Soothed by the unexpected connection that was formed.


	17. Chapter 17

Franklin realized that he must have dozed off for some time, awaking as he felt himself being lifted off the ground. He did not stir, keeping his eyes closed while Dr. Lecter heaved him down the hallway to a bed. In line with the rest of the evening, the gesture did not have the sentimentality attached to it that Franklin had hoped, either due to his own inadequacy or the doctor's. Although he felt himself an emotionally fragile and dependant being, his body was anything but lithe and delicate. He could feel Hannibal straining to lift him unceremoniously off the ground. Likewise, Dr. Lecter's sensitive eyes and elegant features hid a calculating and inhuman demeanor that did not allow him to be easily cast in the role of the protector, as Franklin had imagined. Still, even to go through the motions of a seemingly romantic fairytale scenario thrilled Froideveaux to no end. He took in a deep breath and opened his eyes as Hannibal laid his head on a pillow. He reached out to Dr. Lecter's figure leaning over him, his hands grazing the skin on the other's neck and trailing down the fabric of his shirt collar. He did not read Hannibal's eyes but allowed them to reflect his own soul and yearnings, thus protecting himself from the fear of disillusionment. A smile played on his lips while Franklin savoured the precious moment with his beloved, a part of him fearing that any amount of happiness bestowed upon him was short-lived, any delight was fleeting and he himself undeserving of it.

Through the darkness, Franklin could discern a baroque ornamental decor for the bedroom in tones of scarlet and gold. He could not help but find it mystical and alluring, as though it hinted at a secret indulgence of Dr. Lecter's for the ostentatious. That he too coveted the romantic and the theatrical.

He knew it was best not to speak, not to ask questions.

Franklin watched with guilty pleasure while Hannibal turned away from him and methodically unbuttoned his suit-jacket and pulled off his tie, hanging them over a chair. He then went on to remove his shoes, socks, dress-shirt, and pants as well as his briefs, leaving them on the floor to add to the next day's laundry. Ignoring the eyes that were upon him, Hannibal slipped under the covers of the bed while Froideveaux's modesty allowed himself to remove only his jacket, wishing for the bulk of his flesh to remain hidden.

The neurotic exchanged uncertain looks with the sociopath, neither knowing what was expected from the other. Surreptitiously, Franklin inched closer to Hannibal until they were able to share a pillow. Recreating position they had found pleasing in the other room, Hannibal rested his head on Franklin's shoulder, their legs intertwined, while the other placed his arm around him. Franklin kissed Dr. Lecter's exposed shoulder affectionately, drawing the cover higher.

"What does this mean?" Franklin could not help himself in asking the question, his anxiety yearning for further reassurance.

"In what sense?" Hannibal opened his eyes, slightly perturbed by the other man's restlessness.

"You didn't reject me...but you don't love me, do you?" Franklin's heart welled with hope against all odds.

"What reasons would I have for rejecting you?'

"You have them alphabetized," he tried make a joke of it, as his psychiatrist Dr. Lecter had an intimate knowledge of his every flaw while he himself was only beginning to understand the other. Seeing no response to his humor, Franklin felt himself obliged to go on. "I'm an anxiety-ridden middle aged man with a boring desk job and below average looks," he summarized his self-perception. "And you are already in love with a - well I guess he isn't perfect either but at least he is unique in some way while I'm just the common-place sort of pathetic lonely socially inept...you get the idea."

"There is a benevolent desperation about you that I find endearing. I feel at ease with you," Hannibal replied.

"So you are open to me because I'm vulnerable, weak, and desperate to be with you?" Franklin was both reassured and offended. "That you're just lazy to search around for someone better so you settle for whatever's in easy reach?"

"Yes, in a sense," Dr. Lecter made no scruple of admitting it. "Often romantic pursuits can be emotionally perilous and disheartening, the object of one's affection is usually found to be highly idealized. Rarities are difficult to find and being human, I do tire of living without any requited emotional bonds," Hannibal admitted. "I would not 'settle' indiscriminately however."

"But you do have your ideal in sight...but I guess you and him are in a difficult spot aren't you?" Franklin reflected. "Do you ever think that would change?"

"No," Hannibal answered."I feel the pain of isolation as greatly as any man, there is nothing more damning than to exist in a vacuum of one's own making, it creates the illusion that there is something greater over the walls. There are individuals who fascinate me, certainly, yet to know them intimately would be to mar them. I would see them too clearly and they would see me as well, we would both recoil in disgust and that would be the end of a perfect form. On must never meet their idols, nor touch them. Still it cannot be helped that we gravitate towards them, it seems inhuman to resist the will within us and so we plunge in and destroy spirit after spirit, knowing another would come equally glorious and gaudy."

"So I'm your second pick in the meantime, as a placeholder?" Franklin closed his eyes tightly, his mind caught on the words that evoked his insecurities, filtering out all else. "Is that why you accept me?" he asked.

"What makes me accepting of your flaws is that you are excepting of mine," said Dr. Lecter. "You appear drawn by traits that would trigger many to draw away, this affinity that you possess makes you distinct from other potential partners," he decided against saying 'sociopathic' given that the word often carried a sharp negative connotation. "There is certainly something pleasant in your companionship as well."

"I've been so lonely, you don't know how much this means to me," Franklin gushed out his emotions at the knowledge that Hannibal would truly consider staying with him. "I will love you like no one will ever love you, I will hold you close and listen to you and comfort you and cook and clean for you, I'll be anything and everything you want, I'll lose weight, I'll -"

"That won't be necessary," said Hannibal, aware of how trivial the words sounded.

Franklin embraced him heartily, filled with utmost joy. "I just want to spend the rest of my life growing close to you. I want you to be happy."

Hannibal kissed him lightly on the lips, partially in gratitude and partially to silence him. Franklin felt his heart racing as he allowed his hopes to soar.

Already his imagination was at work creating happy scenes of a future. Already the world seemed infinitely less bleak.


	18. Chapter 18

After some time Franklin was able to fall asleep, tossing and turning until at last he rolled onto his side and curled up at the edge of the bed. It was not long before he began to snore.

Sleep did not come so easily to Hannibal. Memories of daydreams and fantasies flitted through his mind one after another, blending into each other to create new images and emotions, making his stomach churn from the longing they evoked. A longing only fueled further by the effect Franklin had on him. He was aware that through his persistence and sympathy the man had furtively drawn him out of the belief that he could turn away from the need for such attachments. Instead Franklin had tempted him with an acceptable, though inferior, substitute. Hannibal's hope was that over time he would develop a dependence on the other and take solace in the simple pleasures their relationship provided.

...

DREAMS

...

_He did not fear him, thought Dr. Lecter, he was only repulsed. Will had made no effort to hide his contempt, or perhaps it was merely disgust. Merely annoyance. Disappointment. Hannibal tried to hide his own unease as he struggled to look deeper into Will. He saw humanity's reflection, how painful empathy could be. The fresh and poignant guilt and remorse were there in Will's eyes yet still they seemed defiant. If only the man knew what to struggle against, perhaps on a subconscious level he realized that the death of his captor would not bring back the victims. It would only be more blood on one's hands but more painful still, it would mean isolation. What had drawn Hannibal to him was that they shared a common struggle due to the extremes that defined their minds. For Will empathy was the gateway, for Dr. Lecter it was the absence of it. Pure emotion and pure calculating logic, each creating imperfect illusions, the two men were lost. He did not know if it were truly so, or merely the projection of a desire, but it appeared to him that they had begun to blend into each other. Hannibal wondered if this was empathy as felt by other humans, to project one's own potent emotions so deeply into another that their pain became yours. Their pleasure became your pleasure. It was the intensity of emotion that had changed for him, so he realized, he began to feel more acutely, a greater awareness had come to him. It brought fear with it. His inward struggle was beginning as he grasped for his crisp facade, like a protective layer between himself and humanity. He had been untouchable, he stepped through the world as though it were truly a stage, eyes were watching him but very few caught the sublime. The script, the music, the acting were no less beautiful, the intricacies were for those who were deserving. Will was his audience, he waited so long for one that could merge with him, see him through the masquerade. He had weaved a dance of madness for him, it gave life purpose and a dark beauty, Will understood. Will Graham dwelled inside the minds of every shade of madness in anticipation of the most grotesque revelation, that the devil was his shadow. Something had shattered into pieces.  
..._

_Hannibal looked down at the broken fragments of a wine glass at his feet. For a moment he felt an indefinable fear brought about by his lapse, his mind had wandered, his mind had betrayed him, leaving him out in the open. The eyes of another had seen his instability, Will's eyes. Hannibal gazed at Will unwaveringly, scrutinizing him, analyzing him. He could not see. He could not see anything. He did not want to. Hannibal smiled, a peculiar turn of his lips as he forced his mind to subdue itself, a tranquilizing euphoria. In the isolation of the forest his desire had always been to explore the complexities of his own mind and that of his companion, too long had he buried himself in ice. Dr. Lecter would bring him into his world, in all its entirety, he would lay himself on a platter for Will. Will Graham would not cast him away, he couldn't, he couldn't. This was what Hannibal had always wished for, to step out of his role into something that had a semblance of reality, a reality that could not be touched by other humans. A world made only for two. No, for one, at the grand finale they would merge into one. It would be beautiful, it would be sanity.  
..._

"_You should sit down Will," said Hannibal, pulling up a chair for him as he placed a platter on the table. Neither his voice nor his expression revealed signs of concern, he felt that presenting such emotions would appear more patronizing than soothing coming from the man that had brought about much of Will's pain._

On the plate Hannibal had served him his heart, without the flourishes of artful presentation that were his custom. Blood soaked through the fabric of his suit but he felt no pain.

_It was a small token to his companion, their meal would symbolize that the mask had come off, or with the necessary effort he would strive towards that point. In time he wished to show him his submission and thus earn Will Graham's. As he took in the other man's morose state he could see that he was holding on by a thread. With effort he could immerse himself in the mourning that soiled the charade of sincerity Dr. Lecter saw in their future. He had to be careful not to project too much of himself on to the other man, in his present state he was not as receptive of dwelling inside minds too distant from his own._

"You do not look well, some nourishment will help," Dr. Lecter encourage him, pushing the plate towards the statuesque figure. He sensed that Will's anguish would not be easily quelled. It was a matter of honor for the man, not to succumb to the offering with eagerness, and to Hannibal this was acceptable. He understood his role in relation to Will's. He had done everything in his power to sever every tie the man had to reality, to other humans. Every means possible was used, Hannibal was amoral when it had come to reaching the desired conclusion. Will had been manipulated, he had taken the fall for him, he had protected him by allowing himself to be led away from the truth, perhaps with too great an ease as a result of the trust and friendship that Hannibal had devoted himself to building between them.

_..._

_Hannibal sat down opposite to Will, bowing his head for a moment in thought before looking up at the other man. The form before him appeared to be melting, soiling the meal with decaying matter. _

"_You disgust me," it spoke, its face having morphed into that of Dr. Du Maurier. A withered skeletal hand picked up the wine glass and breathing in its sharp scent, sealed the words with a drink. _

_Hannibal covered the phantasm with the tablecloth, white with the exception of a few scattered stains of scarlet wine that now took on a rather sinister appearance. _

"_Thank you Hannibal," Du Maurier's voice echoed._

_..._

Hannibal awoke with a start, his eyes darting to the man that lay beside him, sound asleep. He watched the other's stomach rise and fall in rhythm to his snores, reminding him of the changes in his life that were to come.

He rose from the bed and went to the window, staring at the dimly lit streets beyond the glass. Hannibal played over the memories of the past, systematically analyzing them, imaging several possible conclusions. Never had he imagined another being could keep himself in an even moderately functional state as Will Graham had under the burden of such madness as his. If nothing more, the man had earned his admiration for his resilience. Many times he felt Will was approaching his breaking point yet little would deter him. From the outside he appeared so feeble, as though he were born with a great shame for which he would never be able to make amends for. How he quivered and grew tense in the presence of others, fearing their scrutiny. Hannibal wished to reassure him that all but a few saw nothing, close to nothing. His empathy, what a gift it may have been, to be able to dwell into the minds of others so deeply as to anticipate their actions, a dangerous gift perhaps. Dr. Lecter's own perception had come from study and experience, trial and error, an accumulation of many insignificant scenarios. He could pay attention to the minuscule details and dissect. Their scent, their posture, their tone of voice, they created a picture that he would match to one he had seen before or its closest fit. He was thus prone to mistakes far more so than Will. Will did not see them, he would become them. It was beautiful. It was hope.

Hannibal had been overcome by selfishness, a selfishness that shamed him. He wanted Will Graham to cure him from himself, from the nightmares that he had grown so used to though never enough for them to become bearable. Most of the unfortunate beings he ensnared were but a small relief, madness would consume the too quickly. They were victims rather than opportunities to relieve himself of the darkness that haunted him, the evils of a forbidden world. He could hardly help himself as he grew closer to Will, feeling protective of him in his own sinister way. He would kill no longer for his own sake but to take away the other's nightmares and delusions, for a few days or even a few hours allowing him a time of peace. They were gifts to his so-called saviour.

Still he could imagine the other man's loathing and fear. It was inevitable, Hannibal could very much understand the reaction. All that he could hope for was that in time Will would find empathy for him as well.

...

_As he heard the doorknob turn, Hannibal rose from his chair and turned to look at the dark figure that had entered, then going to the cupboards. _

_He began arranging the plates, cups and cutlery on the small dining table by the window._

"I am glad that you returned," spoke Hannibal. "I have prepared dinner for us."

...

Hannibal opened his eyes, pulling himself back from the fragments as a nauseating feeling compelled him.


	19. Chapter 19

Dr. Lecter felt queasy, clutching his stomach as an awful convulsion caused him to vomit. He grasped the windowsill to steady himself, keeping his eyes fixed on an object in the distance. "Is everything okay?" a voice spoke to Hannibal. He turned to see Franklin propped up on his elbow, looking out at him with concern. The man quickly rose from the bed, putting his arms around Dr. Lecter to support him. He led him to the bed and rummaged through a pocket in his trousers for a handkerchief.

"I'm going to run a warm bath for you," he told Hannibal, draping a blanket over him before leaving to prepare the bath.

"Thank you," Hannibal murmured, still feeling tense and rather disoriented. He looked at the clock, it was only 4:00a.m. He tried to recall the appointments that awaited him tomorrow, considering if he would sufficiently recover by morning to see patients. Dr. Lecter wondered if his body was responding to a primarily psychological or physical disturbance.

"It's ready," Franklin returned, smiling at him in support. He rubbed Hannibal's back and kissed his ear gently before leading him to his bath.

Dr. Lecter allowed the other to usher him down the hall, feeling that reality had become too disconnected from his past perceptions. Too many new figures had intruded into his personal realm of solitude. He stepped into the water, it was pleasantly warm and Franklin had taken the trouble to dim the light as not to sting his eyes. For a moment he felt blissfully grateful to have the man's company, it had been a long time since anyone had care for him in such a way, though at the same time it evoked suppressed feelings of vulnerability to accept the other's ministrations. There was something overbearingly maternal about Franklin's manner and even his appearance, Hannibal mused, an eagerness to please. He wondered what the man expected in return for his offerings. At least on a subconscious level he was aware that his patient longed for approval and needed constant consoling to keep his anxieties at bay. Perhaps that is why he reached out to those who presented a cold exterior and were marked by some prestige, based on the past objects of idolization Franklin had mentioned to him during his therapy sessions. In their shadow, Franklin could bask in greatness, sharing in it like the mother of a prodigy.

Suddenly the doorbell could be heard through the sound of running water, causing both men to exchange a troubled look. Franklin wondered who could possibly be visiting at such a late hour. Hannibal wondered what he ought to do about Franklin, his initial impulse being to make himself presentable and go to the door.

"You wait here, I'll see who it is," Franklin took the initiative, the opportunity of caring for Hannibal had the effect of swelling his confidence. He hoped to show some degree of assertiveness and responsibility in the other's eyes to make up for past weakness, thus allowing the other to rely on him in times of vulnerability. Dr. Lecter was about to protest but at last decided how the scenario would unfold ought to make little difference one way or another. He was also curious to see how Franklin would deal with his guest's unexpected arrival.

Franklin descended the staircase and went to the familiar doorway. Standing on his toes he leaned over to the spy hole to see who it was, his mouth quivering as he recognized the figure on the other side.

He stood at the door with an urge to bite at his nails, checking every few seconds if the visitor had left. After some pacing back and forth for some time, he resolved to return upstairs, not finding it in himself to greet the other man as his anxiety ran high. Franklin's jaw clenched in nervousness while he ascended the steps with undue care, he could not imagine how Hannibal would take it when he found that his guest had been left at the door.

It was a relief to see a light smile on Dr. Lecter's face as he sat huddled in a corner of the bath,

"Who was it?" Hannibal asked him.

Franklin sat on the edge of the bathtub visibly ill at ease while he silently considered his response.

"It was Will Graham," he replied at last, looking at Hannibal's hands as to avoid his eyes.

"You did not open the door to him," spoke Dr. Lecter, curious to find that Franklin had answered honestly.

"Yes," the man felt a pang of guilt and embarrassment. "I did not want his presence to ruin things. I did not know how you would react to him, if –if it would make you reconsider."

"That is understandable," said Hannibal. "Thank you for telling me the truth," reaching out for Franklin's hand, Dr. Lecter kissed his fingers.

"Thank you," Franklin managed to say, it was not the response he had expected, the other's affection filling him with warmth. "I'm sorry for being so—"

"Jealousy is a natural emotion for one who is protective of their partner, I hold no anger towards you," Hannibal reassured him.

Franklin smiled at him humbly, reaching for a towel to give to his beloved.

Taking advantage of the remaining hours of the night, they returned to bed to try and get some sleep before the workday ahead.


End file.
